


Achilles, the Relationship Counselor

by MsThunderFrost



Series: Achilles, the Relationship Counselor [1]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Ableism, Achilles has Chronic Pain, Achilles has Depression, Achilles is Permanently Disabled, Achilles is a War Veteran, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Blood and Injury, Dissociative Episode, Established Achilles/Patroclus, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Mental Health Crisis, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Patroclus is a Doctor, Patroclus is a War Veteran, Victim Blaming, Zagreus Does Not Know How to Romance, Zagreus is Kind of Hopeless but Achilles Loves Him Anyway, Zagreus is Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 86,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: Achilles is almost amused, “You must be truly desperate, to come to me for relationship advice.”--Achilles is roped into offering an utterly hopeless Zagreus relationship advice, and learns a thing or two about his relationship with Patroclus along the way.Remember: fear is for the weak.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus (Hades Video Game), Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game), Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Series: Achilles, the Relationship Counselor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074767
Comments: 554
Kudos: 925





	1. The Reluctant Relationship Counselor

Achilles stares at the wobbling stack of towels that Zagreus has just finished washing, trying to decide if he ought to be more concerned about the fact that they’re somehow still wet, despite having been in the dryer for over an hour (he knows this, because at some point the pounding in his skill had become perfectly synchronized with the _tha-thump_ of the metal drum—oh, the wonders of having an office that doubled as a utility closet!), or that he can smell the mildew on them from clear across the room.

He knows that there’s a bit of a learning curve with any new job, but… _surely_ the lad has used a washing machine before? …That’s, admittedly, not the sort of question he’d _ever_ thought he’d need to ask during a job interview, but… he’s learning that Zagreus is nothing if not _full_ of surprises—not all of them necessarily _good_.

Ah, but… if anyone is going to teach the lad to be a semi-functional member of society, it may as well be Achilles. It’s clear as day that the poor kid’s father cannot be bothered.

Achilles is fairly certain that he can be patient while his new hire works out the kinks (so long as Zagreus doesn’t expect to be coddled—he doesn’t do well with coddling—and actually makes an effort to learn from his mistakes). He is, by all accounts, fairly mild-mannered—although he thinks that this is due, at least in part, to the war shattering something deep inside of him, something that had never healed quite right. He can remember a time when all he felt was a righteous, all-encompassing _anger_. But now…

They called him a hero. He never thought that heroism would feel quite so… devastating. 

"Err, lad? Are you certain that those are clean?" The basement of the gym isn't air-conditioned, and the oscillating fan he'd brought down from the upstairs storage is only serving to spread the scent of dank and rot throughout the tiny space. Achilles wrinkles his nose as he directs his attention to another membership application. 

"Yes, sir!" Zagreus, excitable as ever, nearly sends the entire stack of towels tumbling to the ground (at least then, Achilles would have an excuse to ask him to rewash them...). "I even used an extra scoop of detergent!" Ah... so they're lucky that they're not swimming in a sea of bubbles, then. "Have you ever considered using something _stronger_ than that free-and-clear crap? Those towels were _rank_."

Achilles wants to point out that they don't smell all that much better now. Instead, he shrugs, "It gets the job done well enough. Besides, we have members with certain sensitivities—," Perfume allergies were no joke, and the _last_ thing someone wanted to see in the locker rooms was someone with a _rash_. 

"Ah... Yeah, I suppose the perfume in some detergents could really irritate some people's skin." Zagreus licks his lips, and begins fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Can I... ask you something, Achilles... sir?" His voice is small, so much so that Achilles struggles to hear him over the _whoosh_ of the fan. 

He doesn't divert his attention away from the day's paperwork, even as the fan sends another burst of stale air his way. "You don't have to keep calling me 'sir', Zagreus. I'm... what, ten years older than you?" Not that you'd _ever_ be able to tell that the baby-faced youth fidgeting in front of him had just turned twenty-six. God, Achilles can feel the gray hairs coming in, just _thinking_ about how old he must look in comparison—"Achilles will do just fine."

"Achilles," he repeats, and Achilles swears that he can hear the serpentine _hiss_ of an 's' as he makes to call him 'sir', _again_. "I was wondering—that picture, on your desk? Who... Who is that?" 

Achilles has a number of pictures on his desk. There's not enough space for him to keep a proper frame, so most have been taped to the sides of his computer monitor—although there are a couple that hang from the shelf that sits about a foot or so above the actual desk. He doesn't think about them often. Is that bad? Probably. Once upon a time, he'd placed them there in an effort to seem more approachable, more human. He considers them his chance to shape the image of the man behind the myth, but...

Most, if not all, of the photos mean next to nothing to him anymore. 

Except... He knows the picture to which Zagreus is referring almost immediately. It is decidedly different than the others—whereas most of the pictures had been professionally printed, _this_ picture had been printed using a standard computer printer. He'd laminated over the flimsy cardstock only after the years had begun to cause the vibrant colors to fade. It was a picture of Patroclus, taken before they had enlisted. Back when he'd still worn his hair long, and his smile was brighter than all of the stars in the night sky. 

When was the last time that Pat had smiled like that? He can't remember, but it was likely long before—

His heel aches. It is an incessant, _burning_ sort of ache, born of bones that don't quite fit together correctly anymore. He'd spent too long on his feet again, today. 

"My husband." He says. It occurs to him, then, that there was no way for the lad to know that he was married. Of the many, many photos on his desk, there is only one of Patroclus (this one, precious moment... _immortal_...). And he doesn't wear his ring, not anymore, not after—"Patroclus."

"You're married?" Zagreus' shock would be almost adorable, were it not accentuated by the pungent scent of rot. _Seriously, Zagreus_...

"I am." He confirms, almost lazily. He narrows his eyes at yet another application, trying to discern whether the woman had meant to write an 'i' or an 'l'. "Sorry to disappoint." He's half-joking, still uncertain as to what Pat sees in him after all these years… and knowing that a young, pretty thing like Zagreus would have _dozens_ of options—

_Better_ options—

“I—That’s not—,” Zagreus puffs out his cheeks, “I just… I’d thought maybe you could help me, is all. You see, I have this… this _friend_ … who I think that I might… h-have feelings for? I don’t… He asked me what he is to me, and I… I didn’t know how to answer. That’s probably a bad sign, isn’t it?”

Achilles is almost amused, “You must be _truly_ desperate, to come to _me_ for relationship advice.”

“Well… You _are_ married, right?” Achilles nods, “And I’m assuming that your husband can generally stand to be in the same room with you for more than ten minutes at a time.”

The blond snorts, “You’re assuming quite a lot.”

“I mean…” Zagreus huffs, throwing himself down dramatically on one of the stuffy old couches that is sat opposite of Achilles’ desk. The frame groans under his weight, “I know next to nothing about your relationship with this _Patroclus_ , and I can already tell it’s a hundred times healthier than my parents. So, yeah. Any and all advice would be _heartily_ appreciated.”

Achilles contemplates the many, many ways one can say ‘don’t be like me’, as his eyes track the way the towels are wobbling back and forth. Any second now, they’re going to fall off of the shelf and hit Zagreus square in the head.

Achilles might even laugh. It’s… been a long time since he’s laughed.

His eyes flicker to the picture of Patroclus. It is not the only one he has of his husband, nor is it his favorite. And yet… this is the only one that isn’t tucked away in a photo album, or hanging in some ridiculously ornate frame, or… When was the last time that he’d spent more than ten minutes in a room with Patroclus? It had to have been before—

His eyes move to his left heel. It was such an _odd_ place to be shot, and yet… the damage was horrendous. Who knew that there were so many little bones in one’s foot? …Patroclus, probably. They paid him good money to know that sort of thing. But Achilles… well, Achilles had never claimed to be particularly _smart_. He knew enough about business to keep his gym open, and knew enough about the human body to know that he’d never again be able to walk without a limp.

Patroclus had sobbed and sobbed, and told him he was lucky to be able to walk at all.

And Achilles had laughed until he cried.

“Are you… okay, sir—Achilles! I mean, Achilles!” Zagreus hurries to correct himself. The corner of Achilles’ mouth quirks up into an almost smile. Really, this kid is too much, sometimes.

“I—,” _No_. _No, I’m not okay._ “Yeah. I’m fine.” He decides that it’s an ‘i’, and finishes processing the paperwork. “Don’t be stupid.” Zagreus squawks, indignant, and Achilles clarifies, “If you feel for him—feel _anything_ for him—then tell him. Don’t leave him to guess what it is that’s on your mind—even if you don’t fully understand what it is your thinking, yourself.”

He should learn to take his own advice. When was the last time he’d had a proper conversation with Patroclus about how he was feeling? …Had it been that first night in the hospital, when even the cool rush of morphine had done little to dull the ache of his broken, splintered bones? When he’d been so overcome with anguish, with _rage_ , that he’d lashed out at the first thing he’d seen?

The stench of mildew intensifies.

“B-But… How do I just… just _tell_ my best friend of over twenty-years that I think I’m in love with him?” Zagreus still looks pitifully lost. Something tightens in Achilles’ chest.

“Just like that.” The elder pulls tugs the hair tie from his soft blond hair, easing some of the tension that’d been building in his scalp. “There’s no use beating around the bush, now is there? And fear is for the weak.”

Zagreus licks his lips, silently mouthing Achilles’ words back to him. Then, “Fear is for the—oomph!” The entire stack of towels tumbles off of the shelf, landing on top of him with a soft _thwump_. Achilles doesn’t quite laugh, but he _does_ make a sound that may have been an aborted chuckle. “Eugh… why do these smell like mildew?”

Achilles rolls his eyes, “If they smell, wash them again.” He returns to his task—he wants to have all of these memberships processed before he closes up shop for the night…

He swears that he hears Zagreus mutter ‘fear is for the weak’ to himself repeatedly as he reloads the washing machine.

_Good_ , he thinks, _maybe… maybe he can still be helpful to someone, even now._

And that… _that_ makes him smile. 


	2. A... Complicated Home Life

It’s almost nine o’clock when Achilles finally makes it home.

The house is mostly dark, but he knows that Patroclus is home—he’d seen his car in the driveway, parked just far enough to the side to allow Achilles to pull into the garage with little difficulty. He always lets Achilles park in the garage, since the concrete half-step into their sun-room is easier to manage with his cane than the mini flight of stairs by their front door. Achilles doesn’t mention it—acts like, if he doesn’t acknowledge it, that will somehow serve to make it less real. But… he is grateful for the small act of kindness, all the same.

He sits in the car for a couple of minutes, brooding. His eyes are fixed on his left ring finger, where his wedding band had sat, once upon a time. The ring is currently sitting in a jewelry box, alongside various other rings, necklaces, and earrings that he no longer wears, but which hold too much sentiment for him to ever consider taking to a jeweler or a pawn broker. Achilles has never been much for sentiment—hence, why the trinkets are sitting in a jewelry box that’s tucked away in the back of his dresser. But…

“Daddy!” The door flies open and crashes, violently, into the wall. Achilles’ headache returns with a vengeance as Pyrrhus, with all the coordination of a gangly five-year-old, tumbles down the half-step and over to the car. 

Achilles offers the little boy a weary smile, “Hey, kid.” He unbuckles his seat belt, grabs his keys, wallet, and the little white baggie of meds he’d picked up from the pharmacy, and exits the car. “You’re especially energetic tonight. Did your Pops give you extra dessert or something?”

“Nah, I’m just excited!” Pyrrhus bounces back and forth—he reminds Achilles quite a bit of a much smaller version of Zagreus. “I feel like you’ve been gone _forever_. And I know Auntie Briseis said it was only this many hours,” he holds up all ten of his fingers, then, upon further consideration, lowers two of them, “but _still_ —that was too long!”

And Achilles… doesn’t really know what to say to that, except, “Sorry, love. I don’t like being away from you or your sister, either, but I have to go into the gym _sometimes_.”

Pyrrhus pouts, “Why can’t I come with you to the gym, then?”

“Well…” Achilles reaches for his cane, and Pyrrhus, without thinking, moves to take the baggie from his hand so that he can balance himself. Achilles’ answering smile is a bit warmer, this time. “Being a big brother is a very important job. I would hate to take you away from it just to have you sit and watch me do paperwork all day.”

“I know…” He puffs out his cheeks. “That _does_ sound kind of boring.” He admits, almost like an afterthought.

“Pyrrhus…” Patroclus pokes his head out of the door, “At least let him come in the door before jumping him like that, jeez.” Despite his words, his tone is affectionate, fond. Pyrrhus nods.

“Yes, Papa.” He waits for Patroclus to head back into the house before turning to Achilles and whispering conspiratorially, “I have to be extra good today, because Auntie Briseis said Papa had a _bad day_.”

Achilles blinks—this is the first that he’s hearing about that. There’d been a time, not too long ago, when he would be the _first_ person that Patroclus would come to when he was experiencing any kind of trouble. Now, he has to hear about it through the grapevine. He clutches the handle of his cane _tight_ , his already pale knuckles turning a ghostly white. His foot is throbbing in time with the somewhat erratic beating of his heart, and he knows that he needs to start moving before his leg gives out and he falls.

He’d fallen, once, in front of Pyrrhus. The little boy had been remarkably brave, all things considered. His voice had wobbled as he’d asked if Daddy would need to go back to the hospital, tears brewing in the corner of his sea-glass colored eyes. They called Achilles a hero—but he didn’t _feel_ like a hero when he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet for more than a few minutes at a time without being wracked with excruciating pain, when he’d had to explain to his five-year-old son that _sometimes, Daddies fall down_.

Thankfully, they make it into the house without incident. Achilles makes a beeline for his recliner—his feel always feels better when he has the chance to elevate it, even if it’s only for a short while. He shoos Chiron off of his seat (the cat lets out a somewhat disgruntled meow, before hopping upon on the back of the chair, and proceeding to swat Achilles on the head with its tail—repeatedly) and collapses into it rather gracelessly. Maybe he’ll spend the night out here—it seems so much easier than hauling his ass down the hall to their room.

Patroclus returns a moment later with two white, ovular pills in hand, “You’re home.” He says, placing the medication into Achilles’ outstretched hand. His touch lingers just a second longer than strictly necessary.

“I’m home.” Achilles breathes. He dry swallows the pills, grimacing a bit at the taste of chalk they leave behind…

“I was half-expecting you to try and hide at the gym all night.” There’s no malice in Patroclus’ tone, just a quiet understanding that cuts him deeper than any knife. “How bad is the pain? I can massage your foot for you, if you’d like.” Patroclus offers, his tone easy, light.

Achilles doesn’t deserve him, “…Aren’t you tired?” He side-steps the question, hopes Patroclus won’t push.

Patroclus shrugs, “I’m always tired. You’re almost never home. Not anymore.”

It’s hard to argue with the truth—so Achilles licks his lips and offers a brief, somewhat stiff nod. “Yeah, I… Yeah, a massage would be nice. Thank you, Pat.”

This is not the first time that Patroclus has offered him a massage—though he’ll admit, it _has_ been awhile. Sometime after he was shot (those days all sort of bleed together in Achilles’ mind now), his physical therapist had recommended it as a way of maintaining healthy blood flow to the afflicted area. In those days, before Achilles had begun ‘hiding’, as Patroclus liked to call it, Patroclus had tended to his wounds religiously. If Achilles so much as _looked_ like he might be experiencing pain, Patroclus would break out the chamomile oil—

It occurs to Achilles, belatedly, that Pyrrhus had mentioned something about Patroclus having had a bad day. And Achilles, by extension, ought to be the one taking care of Patroclus—not the other way around. He frowns, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject. Could something have happened at the hospital?

He’d be much more _visibly_ upset if he lost a patient, he thinks, so that can’t be it.

“Okay,” Patroclus says. “Okay. Let me just put Pyrrhus to bed, and check-in on Amaltheia—,”

“But I don’t _wanna_ go to bed yet!” Pyrrhus whines. Achilles never did understand these little anti-bedtime fits. If he had his way, he’d be able to sleep all the damn time. He’s certainly never _not_ tired, not now. “Daddy _just_ came home, and I wanna tell him all about my day with Auntie Briseis!”

Patroclus looks to Achilles, and Achilles doesn’t know what to do. It is true that he does not spend as much time with his son as he ought, and he _would_ like to hear about his day—but he’s _also_ always trying to find new ways to circumvent bedtime, and he doesn’t want to undermine Patroclus’ authority in this.

Parenting is hard. _Communicating_ is hard, in general.

Patroclus, thankfully, seems to understand. “Alright. Fifteen minutes, then.” He hooks his hands underneath Pyrrhus’ arms and lifts him up into the air, the little boy letting out a delighted squeal as he’s whisked up onto Achilles’ lap.

“Thank you, Papa!” Pyrrhus exclaims, sounding far too happy. He immediately launches into a story about some craft that he’d made with Briseis (he _thinks_ that they made birdhouses out of popsicle sticks, but he’s not entirely sure). “…And Auntie Briseis got paint on her nose! It was so funny!”

“It sounds like it.” Achilles concedes, though he doesn’t laugh. He can imagine Briseis covered from head-to-toe in washable paint, laughing her head off.

Briseis is good with kids. Achilles is not.

Patroclus disappears down the hall to check on their six-month-old daughter. He’s certain that she’s fine—they’d be able to hear through the baby monitor if she wasn’t—but it brings Patroclus comfort to check in on her every now and then now that she’s started to sleep through the night. Pyrrhus continues to babble on about how he’d painted his bird house blue because blue was Achilles’ favorite color, except the first blue he’d chosen wasn’t pretty enough, so he’d asked Briseis to show him how to mix the colors together to make it prettier.

“I would like anything that you made for me.” He says, and that’s the truth. It doesn’t necessarily have to be _pretty_ , though he supposes that that is an added bonus.

“I know that.” Pyrrhus huffs. “But if it’s for Daddy, it has to be _perfect_.” He says this with such determination that Achilles is momentarily taken aback. He remembers Patroclus saying something similar to him, once upon a time.

_If it’s for you… I want it to be perfect_.

Achilles combs his fingers through Pyrrhus’ strawberry-blonde hair, considering. He wonders if Zagreus ever made anything like this for his own father… He wonders if Pyrrhus will one day think of him the way that Zagreus thinks of Hades. He frowns a little at that, “Pyrrhus? You know that I… that I love you, right?”

Sea-glass colored eyes blink up at him slowly, “Of course!” And then, his confusion evident, he adds, “And I love you… _this much_.” He spreads his little arms as wide as he possibly can, offering Achilles a positively radiant smile.

The corner of Achilles’ mouth twitches, “That much, huh? That’s an awful lot of love, just for me.”

“All for you!” Pyrrhus nods, curls bouncing on his little head. “B-But I love Papa just as much! And baby sister, and Auntie Briseis, and—,” It’s aboundingly clear that the little boy has quite a lot of love to go around.

“Glad to hear that there’s still some room in that big old heart of yours for me, little man.” Patroclus presses a kiss to the crown of Pyrrhus’ head, causing the little boy to squeal, again. “It’s been _twenty_ minutes. I gave you extra time because you were being so cute—,”

“Aww…” Pyrrhus pouts, but carefully ambles off of Achilles’ lap without further complaint. “Okay. Night, Daddy. Night, Papa.” He gives them both quick hugs, before scurrying down the hall toward his room.

And now… Patroclus pulls over one of their dining chairs and makes himself comfortable by Achilles’ feet. He drizzles chamomile oil on his fingers, warms it between his hands… for a while, they don’t speak, save for Patroclus checking in every once in a blue moon to make sure that he wasn’t prodding at anything too sensitive. The solid, unrelenting pressure of his fingers is soothing. Patroclus’ presence, in general, is soothing. He doesn’t think that that will ever change, no matter how Achilles struggles with his stubborn pride.

He waits until he is certain that Pyrrhus won’t come ambling back down the hall before bringing up Pyrrhus’ comment from earlier. “So… I heard that you had a bad day.”

“Did you, now.” Patroclus raises a brow, but does not comment further. Not at first.

He learns forward slightly, taking Patroclus’ chin in his hand. The other man’s beard scrapes against his sensitive skin, the low-light catching on the few silver hairs in a sea of ebony. When had he decided to grow his beard out? “There are no secrets between us, right?”

Patroclus is silent for a moment, before admitting, “I spoke with Theseus today.”

“Hmm,” Achilles hums. His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly. Not to the point of harm, or even mild discomfort—he could never hurt Patroclus. At least, not physically.

Emotionally… he knows that his behavior, as of late, has caused Patroclus his fair share of heartache. He supposes that he should count his lucky stars that Patroclus doesn’t think that he’s cheating—though he thinks that the other understands, no matter how distant he grows, that he would never even _consider_ such an act.

He doesn’t _want_ anyone else. And he doesn’t understand why Patroclus wants _him_.

“He… asked me on a date.” Patroclus continues. Red bleeds before Achilles’ eyes, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. “I reminded him that I am, in fact, married, and he… well, he asked if what we had could still constitute a marriage…” He squeezes Achilles’ injured foot just a hair tighter.

“…What did you tell him?” The rational part of his brain knows that this is a dumb question. The insecure (and, unfortunately, _dominant_ ) part of his brain needs to hear that Patroclus sent that creep packing. Because he _did_ send the creep packing… right?

“I told him no, obviously.” His husband frowns, “He took it about as gracefully as he takes anything else, but… somehow, I don’t think that this is going to be the last of it.”

“Hmm,” Achilles hums again, digging his short, blunt nails into the fabric of the recliner’s arm rest.

Patroclus notices, because _of course_ he does. “Are you alright? You need to tell me if I’m pressing down too hard…”

He licks his lips, “I’m fine.” He tells himself that he means it.

Patroclus’ hands snake higher, abandoning his heel in favor of rolling the delicate joint of his ankle. There’s a soft _crack_ , and Achilles’ sea-glass colored eyes flutter as he melts into the recliner. _Nothing_ should feel this good. He wishes that he were in the proper headspace to accept such offerings from Patroclus more often… surely, the idea of spending an entire day on his feet would not be so daunting if he could accept that he had _this_ to come home to. But Achilles’ brain is a treacherous thing, and it’s not long before the shame settles in…

“I… I’m okay now.” He says, and Patroclus releases his foot without complaint. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Patroclus says, his tone easy, light. He uses one of their hand towels to clean the excess oil from his hands, “Are you coming to bed, or…” He inclines his head, _Are you planning to spend the rest of the night out here?_

“I…” Achilles swallows hard, “I had planned on watching a little television before going to bed. I know that we have the television in our room, but… well, I don’t want to keep you up, when I know that you have an early start tomorrow.” He knows that he’s doing little more than talking out of his ass, but…

“Come to bed anyhow.” If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Patroclus was pouting. “I always sleep better, knowing that you’re nearby.”

Patroclus takes his hand, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the space where Achilles’ wedding band _should_ have been. Achilles doesn’t have the strength to continue fighting him, “Alright. I’ll be in as soon as I’ve had something to eat—,”

He’s barely finished speaking when Patroclus interjects with, “There’s leftovers on the bottom shelf of the fridge.”

He doesn’t deserve Patroclus. He _knows_ that he doesn’t deserve Patroclus. But he nods and lets Patroclus press a kiss to his temple (his head still hurts, but this makes it feel just a little bit better). Then Patroclus vanishes again, likely intending to take a shower before retiring for the evening.

Achilles takes a deep breath, before rolling his ankle. His foot feels better, but he’s still not keen to put too much pressure on it. Still, Patroclus had asked him to come to bed with him, and he _does_ want to cuddle. Desperately. His conversation with Zagreus had shed light on the distance between him and his husband, and he wants nothing more than to make that distance as small as physically possible—at least for tonight. He wants to rest his head on Patroclus’ chest and feel him card his fingers through his long blonde hair and—

He wants to feel loved. He wants to feel _happy_.

Happiness, it turns out, is an incredibly _slippery_ thing.

Patroclus had made shepherd’s pie for dinner. Achilles doesn’t bother to reheat it—it hadn’t been in the fridge all that long, and is still a little warm. He eats it straight out of the Tupperware, before rinsing out the little plastic bowl and tossing it into the dishwasher. And then he limps down the hall to their bedroom. He takes a couple of minutes to change into a pair of loose black sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt (he thinks that it might belong to Patroclus… he can remember a time when he had more muscle, more _bulk_ than his husband—

Remembers carrying him over the threshold of their first house after their honeymoon, as Patroclus had laughed and laughed—).

Achilles flops face-first onto the bed—he’d almost fallen asleep when he feels the bed dip alongside him, and a large, warm hand settles on the small of his back. “Aww… You’re tired, aren’t you, darling?”

“Hmm,” Achilles rolls over, burying his face in Patroclus’ slightly damp skin.

Patroclus chuckles, “I have to put pajamas on, Achilles. I can’t sleep in a towel.” Achilles shifts, using more of his weight to pin Patroclus down to the mattress. His actions seem to say, _you can, and you will_.

Indeed… Patroclus sleeps in a towel that night.

* * *

“Good morning, darling.” Patroclus brushes his lips over Achilles forehead, “Everything’s fine. You needn’t wake-up yet. I just wanted to let you know that I’m headed off to work.”

“…Be safe.” Achilles whispers. He does not open his eyes, but he knows that he will not be falling back asleep—not without Patroclus there. And then, he adds, almost like an afterthought—“I love you.” He doesn’t remember how long it’s been since he’s last said it, which is more than a bit not good—

“I love you, too.” He likes to think that Patroclus is smiling. He _sounds_ like he’s smiling.

Achilles lays in bed awhile longer. He wonders if Zagreus has spoken to this… _friend_ of his. Though… he supposes that it is a bit soon for that, considering that Zagreus had only just stuttered his way through a vague explanation of his feelings _yesterday_. Was that really _just_ yesterday? He feels like an entire week has transpired within the span of a singular day. He feels like he’s _aged_ as well. Reaching up, he cards his fingers through his hair, reminiscing on the way that Patroclus had massaged his scalp as he drifted off to sleep…

He _should_ try to sleep more. His mood most certainly will not suffer for it—and he knows that Zagreus will be thankful if he’s at least in a _somewhat_ pleasant mood. He truly does not want to frighten the lad, to scare him off by biting his head off in the heat of the moment. But he is, admittedly, a bit less in control of his emotions when he hasn’t slept.

Just a little bit.

“Daddy!” Pyrrhus’ distressed wail cuts through the otherwise silent morning. He’s up and down the hall before he even realizes that he’s moving—not even realizing that he’d neglected to grab his cane in his panic.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” He slams Pyrrhus’ door open, to find the little boy twisted up in his blankets, his face red and blotchy and streaked with tears. “Pyrrhus? Pyrrhus, what’s the matter?”

“D-Daddy!” And then his son _launches_ himself at him, tackling him to the ground.

And… okay, that hurt. _A lot_. But it’s rather difficult to focus on the pain when Pyrrhus is sobbing incoherently about a nightmare that he’d had. Or, well, he _thinks_ that he had a nightmare. It can be difficult to understand Pyrrhus on the best of days, but now that he’s bordering on hysterics, he considers it to be a lost cause. So, he strokes Pyrrhus’ back slowly, and lets him make an absolute mess of his t-shirt, and lets the boy place his little hands on his chest and feel his heartbeat and—

“I-I… Y-You went to sleep, and—and I couldn’t wake you up!” Pyrrhus sobs. “A-And your hands were c-cold, and Papa… Papa was crying… and I-I-I… I didn’t like it!” He wails.

Achilles blinks. He… Well, sometimes he doesn’t feel like what he is can quite be considered _alive_ , but he is certainly not _dead_. And he has no intention of dying anytime soon. “Mmm… that sounds like a pretty awful dream. But do you know what always makes _me_ feel better after I have a bad dream?”

Pyrrhus stares at him, wide-eyed. “ _You_ have bad dreams?” He asks, not quite believing.

He nods, “Yeah.” _All the time_. He takes a deep breath, before whispering conspiratorially, “I raid Papa’s ice cream.” 

“ _You_? Eating _ice cream_?” Pyrrhus looks positively scandalized. Achilles snorts—he supposes that the boy’s response makes sense, considering that Achilles is always the one pushing for him to eat healthy.

“I do.” He confirms. He’s even about ninety-nice percent certain that Patroclus buys certain flavors because he knows that they are the ones that Achilles prefers… even though he continues to insist that he doesn’t eat it. “And I’ll even share some with you, just this once. It’ll be our little secret.”

“For breakfast?” Pyrrhus asks, still sounding skeptical.

Well, he would hardly consider ice cream a proper meal—and he’d be hard pressed to say that anything consumed at four-thirty in the morning is _breakfast_ , but… “Yeah, for breakfast.”

The ice cream helps. It also serves as a welcome distraction from the pain radiating up and down his leg. He’ll need to take his meds soon (that’s the other reason that Patroclus wakes him when he leaves—it would be a real bitch if he missed a dose), but he wants to make sure that Pyrrhus is alright first. The little boy seems desperate to keep a hand on him at all times, like he’s afraid that, if he stops touching him, he’ll ‘fall asleep’, just like in the dream. And he… he doesn’t know how to fix that.

He’s not good at… _comforting_. Or _being_ comforted, for that matter. Once upon a time, when he’d been more comfortable in his own skin… _maybe._ But certainly not now.

He finds his thoughts drifting to Zagreus once more—to the towering stack of mildew-scented towels. He thinks of Zagreus, and how he’d been so confident that his and Patroclus’ relationship was so much healthier than Hades and Persephone’s. Achilles… well, he thinks that they’re rather more like that stack of towels. Unsteady, wobbling… waiting for just the slightest _push_ to send them all toppling to the ground. Maybe it’ll be Theseus that finally knocked them down. Hadn’t Patroclus said that he didn’t think their little _talk_ the other day would be the end of it?

He kind of wants to punch Theseus in the nose. Break his bones, _make him bleed_ …

Achilles hasn’t felt _rage_ like that in a long, _long_ time.

“Can I…” Pyrrhus licks his lips, “Can I… come with you to work today? I know what you said last night, but…” _but that was before I dreamt of you dying, and I want to make sure that you’re alright_.

Achilles considers this for a moment, before brushing sweat-slick strawberry blond hair away from Pyrrhus’ face. “Much as I would _love_ to bring you along, I still think it would be best if you stayed here. I’m sure that Briseis has a full day planned for you—,”

“But I want to be with _you_.” Pyrrhus whines. Achilles frowns—he _really_ doesn’t like it when Pyrrhus starts whining, even when he has more than enough reason to, considering the morning that he’s had.

“I know. I know that you do.” He says. Stuffing another mouthful of ice cream into the boy’s mouth, he continues, “How about I bring you something special home for dinner, hmm?”

“Will you come home early?” The little boy asks.

Achilles bites down on the inside of his cheek, “I’ll do my best.” He wipes the last of the tears from Pyrrhus’ cheeks with the pad of his thumb, “So you be a good boy for your Aunt Briseis, alright?”

He slumps his shoulders, “…Alright.” He takes another couple of bites of ice cream, before deciding that he’s done. “Will you come lay with me, then? Before you have to leave for work…”

Achilles nods, “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.” He doesn’t think he’ll get anymore sleep, but…

He doesn’t spend enough time with his son. Now seems as good a time as any to start to remedy that.


	3. Slowly, and Then All at Once

Achilles is a little surprised that it’d been so easy for him to fall back asleep.

He’s also more than a little disappointed in himself for sleeping through his six o’clock alarm and missing a dose of medication. He can still take his anti-depressant, but it’ll fuck-up his whole routine if he takes his pain pills late—it’ll be easier to wait until he’s due to take his next dose at twelve.

He wakes to the piercing sound of their six-month-old’s wails. His eyes skirt over to the clock on the bedside table, the little red LED numbers informing him that it’s almost quarter to nine in the morning. The little one is due for her morning feed, then. Achilles carefully detangles himself from his son, who at some point had decided that his chest was a much more appealing pillow than the literal _ocean_ of pillows and plushies that lined his bed, and tucks him in under the comforting weight of his favorite SpongeBob blanket.

As soon as he moves to stand, black dots assail the corners of his vision as pain _lances_ through his heel and all the way up into his knee. _“Fuck_ …”

He reaches for one of the posts on Pyrrhus’ bed and squeezes until the wood starts to _splinter_. Maybe he’d been a little hasty in assuming that he’d be able to make it another three hours without anything in his system to mitigate the pain. Unable to think of what else to do, he sits back down heavily—careful to make sure that he’s not sitting on top of Pyrrhus. Amaltheia continues to wail in the other room, and he wishes that she were old enough to understand that he’s _trying_. God, he’s _trying_.

He doesn’t even have his cane. Fucking _hell_.

Taking a few slow, deep breaths—he can almost hear Patroclus whispering ‘in through the nose, hold for ten… nine… eight… and out through the mouth, nice and slow’—Achilles tries, once more, to stand. A few stubborn tears leak from the corners of his eyes, but he can balance with minimal assistance from nearby furniture, so he considers that a win. He takes another slow, grounding breath, and starts to shuffle toward the door. It’s slow going, and he has to stop every so often when the pain makes the room start to spin, but he _does_ eventually make it to the kitchen.

He eases himself up onto the counter, to the left of the sink, and begins to fix Amaltheia’s bottle. It’s not difficult—the directions are right there on the container, after all. He pours two scoops of formula into the little plastic bottle and turns on the tap. In the time it takes the water to heat up, he takes a moment to observe his injured foot.

It’s definitely swollen (though, really, when is it _not_ swollen…). There also appears to be a bit of fresh bruising around his ankle. He allows himself to hope, for a moment, that he hadn’t broken anything when Pyrrhus had tackled him earlier that morning. The absolute _last_ thing that he needs in his life right now is _another_ broken bone.

Or a little boy in hysterics over having ‘broken’ his Daddy.

Once the water reaches an appropriate temperature, he fills the bottle and gives it a few quick shakes. With tremendous care, he slides down off of the counter and slowly makes his way back down the hall to Amaltheia’s nursery. The infant’s wails seem to calm somewhat when she realizes that someone has come to tend to her, and Achilles releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The babe is fine, if not a bit pink in the cheeks from all of her screaming, and Achilles breathes a sigh of relief.

After a bit of a struggle, he’s able to bring the rocking chair over beside the crib so that he has somewhere to sit while he feeds the little one her bottle. Once he’s seated, he lowers the side of the crib so that he can reach his daughter and lifts her up into his arms, mindful of her little head. Amaltheia blinks up at him with wide, tear-filled brown eyes… she looks so much like Patroclus, it never fails to take his breath away. Though he supposes that that makes sense, considering that she _is_ Pat’s biological daughter.

He presses the bottle to her lips, and she latches onto the nipple eagerly, “Sorry it took me so long, princess. Your old man isn’t having the best morning. Think you can find it in your heart to forgive him?”

Amaltheia blinks tired brown eyes up at him slowly, before landing an open-handed _swat_ on his nearest cheek with one gummy little hand. Achilles frowns, momentarily taken aback by the bright _sting_ in his cheek, whilst his daughter continues suckling away as if nothing had happened.

He bites down on the inside of his lip, “…Duly noted.”

Briseis arrives at nine-thirty, on the dot. She’s never been late in the last four years, not since Achilles had been shot and Patroclus had spent almost a month of his life living in the hospital, at Achilles’ bedside. He can smell fresh coffee brewing, and a few moments later, she pokes her head into the nursery—a mug (he immediately recognizes it as the one Pyrrhus had made for her last year, the words ‘I Love Auntie Brie’ written in a child’s shaky hand) and a travel mug filled to the brim with pitch black coffee in hand.

“Thought you might need a little pick me up.” She says, then, “Achilles? Achilles, what’s the matter?”

It takes Achilles a moment to realize that he’s crying. Slowly, he strokes a hand along Amaltheia’s little back, the babe now resting contently on his shoulder. “Am I a… a _bad_ father?”

“What?” Briseis frowns. “That’s nonsense, Achilles. You’re an excellent father.” She sets the coffee down on the changing table, before resting a well-manicured hand on Achilles’ bare shoulder. “Your son thinks the world of you, and your chest is your daughter’s favorite pillow.”

Achilles sniffles, “Pyrrhus’ as well, I think. I woke up this morning to him lying on top of me—,”

Briseis raises a brow, “I thought you said that he was too old to be crawling into yours and Patroclus’ bed?”

“He is.” He confirms, “He didn’t crawl into our bed. He… He had a nightmare, said he dreamt of me _dying_. I told him I’d… I’d lay down with him for a while, and when I woke up, I could barely even stand—and she was _crying_ , and…” He scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, leaving blotches of red in his wake.

“That’s not your fault, Achilles.” She says, her voice soft. Carefully, she takes Amaltheia from his arms and settles her back down in her crib. “It doesn’t make you a bad father to feel pain—it makes you human.”

“…I wish that I could be just a little bit less _human_ , then.” He whispers.

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of an exuberant five-year-old, freshly awoken from his nap. “Auntie Briseis, you’re here!” Achilles sniffles, hurriedly wiping the last of the tears from his eyes as Pyrrhus scurries into the room and launches himself into Briseis’ waiting arms.

“Ah, there’s my favorite little man!” She exclaims, hoisting Pyrrhus up into the air—much to Pyrrhus’ mounting delight.

Achilles reaches for the travel mug Briseis had prepared for him, pops the lid, and takes a long swallow. The liquid is absolutely _scalding_ , and his mouth positively aches for it, but the rush of caffeine provides a welcome jolt to his system. Once the haze of sleep clears, he finds that he feels a little better—though now his eyes _sting_ from the tears that he’d shed. Hell, his entire head _aches_ … once again, he laments sleeping through his alarm and missing his first dose of medication for the day.

He watches Briseis swing Pyrrhus into the air with the greatest of ease, and remembers a time not too long ago when he could still do the same. And now… _now_ , he’s in indescribable pain just from spending a handful of hours in a child’s bed, comforting his son. Now, he has to pull over a chair just to be able to safely hold his daughter.

And he _knows_ … he _knows_ that Amaltheia doesn’t really hate him—that she’s too young to even know what hate is.

But then… “Please… don’t tell Pat about this, alright?” He wipes at his eyes again, taking care to be a bit gentler this time. “I’m feeling better, and… well, there’s no reason to worry him with this, alright?”

Brises frowns, “You’re… You’re allowed to have bad days, you know that, right? Wanting—or needing—to cry every once in awhile doesn’t make you any less of a man, and Patroclus isn’t going to fault you for it.” She says. And he _knows_ that, he _does_. But that doesn’t make it any easier for him to hear. Or accept.

Achilles licks his lips, “…I wasn’t crying. I just… It’s really dry in here, and I think that it’s irritating my eyes.”

Briseis raises one delicate brown eyebrow, “Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, love.” She ruffles his hair, much like she would with Pyrrhus, before motioning to the mug of coffee, “I want you to drink all of that, plus a glass of water, before you hit the road.”

He rolls his eyes, “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m serious, Achilles.” Her tone brokers no room for argument, “I don’t want you falling asleep behind the wheel.”

Achilles clicks his tongue—she acts like that’d happened more than once. And it hadn’t even been his fault. The doctor had had him on a new cocktail of anti-depressants and one of the meds had reacted poorly with another. He didn’t even realize that anything was amiss until he opened his eyes and found himself parked on their front lawn, their mailbox bent double underneath the bumper of his car. Patroclus had been absolutely beside himself, and his psychiatrist hadn’t been much better. Achilles had just been thankful to still be in one piece—mostly.

“Remember your promise, Daddy.” Pyrrhus says, looking at him with all of the unnerving seriousness a five-year-old can muster. Achilles doesn’t remember promising anything, but now doesn’t seem like the best time to mention that.

“Of course.” He sniffles, taking another sip of his coffee. It’s a little cooler now—cool enough that it doesn’t scald his throat when he attempts to swallow. “You be good for your Aunt Brie now, alright? I’m sure that the two of you will have _loads_ of fun destroying the house.”

Now, it’s Briseis’ turn to roll her eyes. “I’ll do my best to keep the place standing.”

A couple minutes later, he hears the television in the living room turn on, the volume just a hair too high for his liking. He can hear the _clinking_ of pots and pans in the kitchen—Briseis is probably making breakfast. He wishes that he had the time to eat it… or the stomach to keep it down. Instead, he turns his attention back to Amaltheia. Reaching into the crib, he runs his fingers over her tight little spiral curls, recalling how she liked to grab onto his fingers with her chubby little hands and squeeze.

Briseis pops back in a short while later with his cane. It doesn’t ease the pain in his leg, but it does make it a little easier for him to make his way back to the master bedroom to dress. Stripping out of his clothes, he does a quick sniff test—his wrinkles his nose as he raises one arm to swipe the deodorant stick across his skin (he’s long overdue for a shower, but the idea of actually getting into the tub seems… _too much_ —and he has too much pride to use that damned shower chair). Surely, he’ll be fine for another couple of days…

He swabs some extra deodorant on, just to be safe.

He throws on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a sleeveless blue hoodie. It’s not the most extravagant attire, but one of the perks of owning your own gym is that there’s no formal dress code. As long as you show up wearing _something_ (which, again, was not something that Achilles had _ever_ thought that he would have to stipulate, but…)—

Briseis presses a water bottle into his hand on the way out the door. “You promised me.”

“Hmm,” Achilles tosses the bottle into his bag, and forgets about it for the rest of the day.

* * *

“Morning, lad.” There’s still about a half-hour before the gym opens, but he’s not surprised to find Zagreus already floating about. The lad is sitting on a lateral press machine, slurping a protein shake and watching a mid-morning rerun of SpongeBob.

“Good morning, Achilles.” The boy tosses him a smile, bright as the morning sun. “I hope you don’t mind.” He inclines his head toward the television, “I’ll change it once the members start arriving, I swear.”

Achilles shrugs. Most of the patrons are too busy blasting their own music to care about what they’re showing on the televisions, anyhow. “Don’t worry about it.” He takes a seat at the front desk and starts booting up the computer. “Have you clocked in yet?”

“No, I… I was waiting for you.” Zagreus confesses, “I already went through your morning checklist: the machines have all been wiped down and the sanitizer and paper towels were refilled, the bathrooms have all been cleaned, there are fresh towels in the showers and the sauna—,”

Achilles raises a brow, “You… _do_ realize that that’s all part of your job, lad. You should be getting paid for that.”

“I… yeah.” Zagreus deflates a little, “It’s just… I got here kind of _early_ , and I felt bad about clocking in because I didn’t want you to think that I was taking advantage of your generosity for giving me a key, and—,”

“How early did you get here?” Does he even want to know? He has a feeling that the answer to that is ‘no’.

“I…” Zagreus’ mismatched eyes skirt around the room, like he’s desperate for something, _anything_ , to provide him a reason to not answer Achilles’ question. Finally, he settles on, “Seven?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Achilles counters.

“Telling. Definitely telling.”

Achilles continues to stare at him, nonplussed, and Zagreus eventually folds like wet cardboard. The kid stutters his way through explaining that his father had kicked him to the curb a couple of weeks ago, and he’d been sleeping on his friend’s (yes—Zagreus had blushed and averted his gaze—the very same friend that he was apparently harboring feelings for) couch until he could save up enough money to be able to get a place of his own. He didn’t want to impose on his friend anymore than he already was, so he’d told them that their work schedules coincided—

It normally wasn’t a problem, considering that Achilles had given him a set of keys specifically because he needed him to come in early to take care of a few housekeeping tasks before they opened their doors to the public. Achilles also never gave him strict hours—he was free to make his own schedule, and come and go as he pleased. There were… undoubtedly better ways to go about managing one’s employees, but… well, considering that Zagreus was Achilles’ _only_ employee, he figured that he could be forgiven for having a bit of a ‘hands-off’ approach.

That, and… well, Zagreus had yet to take advantage of him. He had yet to prove himself undeserving of Achilles kind treatment (and Achilles was doubtful that the boy was capable of doing anything that would make him lose such complete and total faith in him).

Achilles has always been the trusting sort. It… hasn’t always proven to be a good thing.

“Are you… _okay_ , s—Achilles?” Achilles blinks. He hadn’t realized he’d zoned out like that.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright. Just… having a bit of a bad pain day, is all.” He says. “I’m assuming that your father told you why I needed someone to help me run the gym?” He knows that Hades and his son are not on the best of terms, but considering the fact that it was Hades who’d all-but gotten his son this job…

Zagreus nods, “He… told me a little, yes. He said that you’d been shot in the line of duty and were a war hero.” He says. “You don’t have to… You don’t have to tell me more, if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m more than happy to help you out in any way that I can—,”

“I was shot in the heel.” His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, so much so that it’s difficult for him to force the words out—but he keeps pushing. “It caused a condition called medial and lateral plantar nerve entrapment.”

It’s really just a fancy way of saying that the bullet splintered the many, many bones inside of his heel, creating tons of little crevices for nerve branches to squeeze their way inside. As his heel was healing, the nerve branches then became compressed between the bones, ligaments, and connective tissue, causing horrendous amounts of pain. There were times when sitting (and, by extension, taking direct pressure off of the heel) would help alleviate the pain, but more often than not, he just _hurt_. All. The. Time.

Zagreus pales a little, “That sounds… _awful_.”

_That’s not even the half of it._ “I’m not telling you this because I want to be pitied. I don’t think that there’s anything I would hate more.” He says, “I just… I want you to understand… I’m _not_ okay, most of the time. And it’s… it’s just the reality that I live with. It can’t be fixed, and I… I’ve come to accept that. But it needn’t trouble you.”

“But… even if it can’t be fixed, isn’t there anything that I can do to make you a bit more… I don’t know… _comfortable_?” Zagreus fidgets a little, looking for all the world like a puppy that’d been abandoned out in the rain.

_Yeah. Waking up on time to take my damned medication_. “Not that I can think of off of the top of my head. Though it _is_ sweet of you to offer.” Achilles smiles a little, shifting in his seat.

“…Would it help you to elevate it?” Zagreus tries.

“It does feel better when I elevate it, yes—but I can hardly sit in a recliner at the front desk.” Achilles says.

“Maybe not a recliner, but…” Zagreus snaps his fingers, before running off in the direction of the office/utility closet.

He comes back a couple of minutes later with two boxes of paperwork in hand. From the looks of it, they appear to be boxes filled with the paper copies of memberships that Achilles had already processed. Achilles raises a brow, but does not comment, as the boy sets the boxes off to the side and motions for him to slide back from the desk. There’s just enough room for him to slide the boxes, and one of the cushions from the sofas downstairs, underneath, and still have room for Achilles to comfortably rest his leg on top.

Zagreus turns back to Achilles, a bright smile, brimming with pride, illuminating his handsome face. Achilles rolls his eyes, before carefully raising his leg to rest on the makeshift ottoman that Zagreus had created. It’s… surprisingly comfortable, with the added bonus of being tucked away underneath the desk (and therefore hidden away from prying eyes). He knows that it’s common knowledge that he was shot (in a town as small as theirs, news travels fast), but he doesn’t like having everyone and their cousin up in his business.

“Not too shabby.” He gives a little wiggle, testing the integrity of the structure. It appears to be rather sturdy, too. “I knew that there was a reason that I hired you, lad.”

“You mean, aside from the fact that my father is your landlord and he essentially told you to if you wanted to keep your lease?” And… wow, way to ruin an almost compliment. While it’s true that Achilles probably would’ve hired him anyway—

_Probably_ —

The fact that Hades was his landlord had certainly helped to… _speed things along_ , as it were.

Suddenly desperate to change the subject, Achilles comes out with, “So… did you have the chance to talk to your friend?” He thinks that the odds are rather high, if they’re ‘living together’—

“I… Kind of?” Zagreus heaves a dramatic sigh, “I still couldn’t give him a definitive answer as to what he was to me, but… we have time, right? We’re still young. I mean, he’s older than me by like a year and a half, but he’s still only twenty-seven, so…” He cuts off abruptly, seeming to realize that he’s begun rambling.

“So what did you tell him?” He cannot help but be a bit confused, considering that Zagreus seems to be talking himself in circles. That… seems to be a bit of a hallmark of when the other man is feeling flustered and out of sorts.

“That… I’d wait for him.” Zagreus says, his voice soft.

Achilles blinks, “Wait… but isn’t _he_ the one that’s waiting for _you_ to tell _him_ how _you_ feel?”

“I… yes? No? I don’t know anymore.” Zagreus flops down into one of the little plastic chairs in the rest area, burying his face in his hands. “How did you know that you were in love with Patroclus?”

Achilles blinks. How _did_ he fall in love with Patroclus? He feels like he’s been in love with the other man for so long, that it’s just become a natural state of being. There was a time, of course, where he’d felt like he’d fallen just a little bit more in love with Patroclus with each and every passing day. It’d been like… like floating in a tide pool. Every once in a while, there would be long stretches of absolute calm. And then… then you could _feel_ the pressure rising, could _see_ the wave building slowly and steadily until…

Until it crashed over you with such terrific force that for one beautiful, yet terrifying moment, you were dragged bodily under the roar of the water. And despite the frantic movement of your body desperately attempting to drag you toward the surface, you just kept sinking down and down and down…

But… you’re not in danger. And you’re not drowning. You never were.

You’re safe… safer than you’ve ever been… sinking deeper and deeper into those warm, uncharted depths.

Slowly, and then all at once.

Now, his love for Patroclus feels like a broken, disjointed thing. Patroclus is still that tidal wave barreling toward him, intent on taking him under… but Achilles is no longer comfortable wading far enough into the tide pool to feel the full force of his power. By the time the wave reaches him, it’s nothing more than a small _splash_ against his feet.

He turns to Zagreus, “Because he makes me feel. Even when I don’t want to.” The answer is as simple as it is complex, and he’s not sure that someone who isn’t inside of his head could ever really understand what it is that he meant.

He’s, admittedly, a bit confused himself.

Zagreus inclines his head to the side, “…Thanatos, he spent a long time not feeling, too.” He swallows hard, “He tells me that it was easier, before he accepted that he might have feelings for me. Before he… considered the possibility that I might not feel the same.”

Achilles considers this for a moment, before imparting perhaps the most important piece of advice he can, “Love hurts, Zagreus.” He runs his fingers over the space where his wedding ring had once lain, repeating to himself, “Love hurts.”


	4. A Sea of Broken Promises

“Love… hurts?” Perhaps this is not what the lad had been wanting—or expecting—to hear, but it is the wisdom that Achilles offers him all the same.

It’s not a universal truth. That is… love doesn’t _always_ hurt. Or maybe it does, and it’s a sweet and tender sort of ache (like the hickeys that Patroclus used to leave on his neck, a delicate choker of reds and purples and blues that he would press, ever so lightly, in the dark void of his bedroom as his hand shifted underneath the bedsheets). Maybe it’s a kind of hurt that you don’t mind experiencing over and over—a kind of hurt that somehow manages to leave you feeling both _raw_ and… and _whole_.

Achilles can’t remember the last time that he felt _whole_.

But he certainly feels _raw_.

No. _Raw_ isn’t quite the right word for it. He feels like he’s been wounded (and, of course, he _has_ —his eyes flit down to his foot, which is still propped up on the makeshift ottoman tucked away underneath the desk—but he’s thinking more in a metaphorical sense), and no matter how hard he tries, he’s at a loss for how to stop the bleeding. He doesn’t even know where the blood is coming from exactly, just that it seems to be coming from _him_ and that’s _bad_. Because sometimes he thinks about Patroclus leaving him and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. And sometimes he thinks about Patroclus leaving him and wonders why he hasn’t just _done it_ already. Surely, there’s someone out there who is _far_ more deserving of Patroclus’ affections…

Some days, he starts to ask Patroclus why he’d stayed after… after he was shot. Some days, it’s all he can do to hold back tears when Patroclus suggests something little—like that they bathe together, when the idea of washing himself is just too much. And it _hurts_ , because he doesn’t deserve Patroclus. He _never_ did. And maybe all of this… it was just meant to open his eyes, to show him that his entire relationship was operating on borrowed time. He takes a deep breath, doing his best to ignore the dull ache that’s settled in his chest. This is not the same ache that’d filled him when he’d lain in bed at night as a teen, tenderly caressing his necklace of bruises that Patroclus had gifted him, before spiriting away out of his window. This… This is not a _good_ kind of hurt.

Achilles blinks, “Wait, did you…? You said that his name was Thanatos.” He seems to remember hearing that name somewhere. “He… works at the local nursing home, doesn’t he? As a hospice nurse?”

Zagreus’ eyes widen ever so slightly, “Yes. Yes, that…” A bit of color rises in his cheeks as he begins to talk about his ‘friend’ in earnest, “Thanatos has always born a close connection to death. I never really understood it, but… it seemed to make him happy, to be able to bring comfort to those nearing their end.”

The older man nods, “It’s a noble calling.” It would also explain why Zagreus felt that Thanatos came off as a bit… _emotionally distant_. Even the best hospice nurses would have to harden their hearts toward the inevitability of death—it comes with the territory. “Have you tried telling him that you aren’t going anywhere?”

“I… well, I’d figured that that was rather obvious. I mean, I’m living on his couch. It’s not like I have anywhere to go, even if I wanted to…” Achilles raises a brow—he’s pretty sure that that didn’t come out quite right.

“So you’re just… using him as a means to an end? Taking advantage of his bleeding heart—,”

“No!” The lad shakes his head, “No, no, no… I-I would _never_!” His mismatched eyes flit back and forth as he tries to figure out what he’d said to make Achilles think that way. “I… I didn’t say that because I _actually_ want to leave him! I did that once, and he’s only recently started talking to me again—and I think it might be partly out of pity—”

Achilles frowns, “Regardless of his romantic feelings for you… if he is truly your friend, he won’t pity you.”

“I… maybe ‘pity’ wasn’t the right word.” He heaves a dramatic sigh, “I think that he… that he doesn’t quite know _what_ do with me. He kind of just _put himself out there_ and I…”

“You… _choked_?” He offers. Zagreus swallows hard, before nodding. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, lad. I did the same, when Patroclus first confessed to me. It’s not the end of the world.”

“But I… I’m _still_ choking! Every time I go to talk with him about my feelings, it feels like there’s something caught in my throat! And I… even _knowing_ how he feels about me, I still feel like… if I say something, I’ll lose him forever.”

“I… I don’t think that that will be the case.” He says, “I might not know Thanatos all that well, but from what I’ve heard, he seems like a rather earnest lad. His feelings for you won’t change if you tell him what’s in your heart.”

Zagreus blinks, “Speaking of which… how do you know Thanatos?”

He… really wishes that he knew how the conversation had come up. Patroclus is a neurosurgeon—he doesn’t deal with hospice patients with any kind of regularity. There are times when he comes across something in the operating theatre that he wasn’t expecting, times when he knows that he cannot fix the problem at hand with the skills at his disposal. In all the years he’s been working at the hospital, it’s happened so rarely… but it always hits him _hard_. Thanatos had always made making those hospice recommendations as easy as something like that _could_ be.

They talk a lot… about everything and nothing. Some days, he thinks that he could tell Patroclus anything. He could tell him that the _ache_ he feels is so much more than a throbbing in his heel. He could tell him that he wishes that he could be so much more… a better husband, a better father, a better _person_. Some days, he thinks that speaking at all is just _too much_. And, after a time, all of the conversations that they’ve had… a lifetime of conversations… they all start to bleed together. And all of a sudden, he feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes.

“He… my husband works with him sometimes.” Zagreus looks like he wants to ask more questions, but thinks better of it. Achilles reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keyring, “Hey… lad? You do realize that I set the thermostat to automatically turn the air conditioning off at ten o’clock every night, right?”

Zagreus raises a brow, “I… well, yes, I remember you mentioning something to that effect during orientation.”

Achilles pops one of the keys off of the key ring and passes it across the desk, “Even with the fans running, I don’t even want to think about how hot it gets here in the middle of the night. So… please don’t sleep here again.”

Color rises high in Zagreus’ cheeks, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I spent the night with Thanatos, on his couch, and came in early because I didn’t want to impose—,”

“If that’s the story that you want to tell me, lad. But just in case you decide on spinning a _different_ tale—,”

Zagreus frowns, “I—sir, you’ve already done _so much_ for me. I couldn’t possibly accept this…” Achilles wants to mention that he’s slipped back into the old habit of calling him ‘sir’, but Zagreus is already continuing, “I don’t… I don’t want to be pitied. Even if I don’t have Than’s couch—,”

“This isn’t pity, lad.” Or, at least, it’s not intended to be. He cannot help it if that is what Zagreus perceives it as. “It’s a serious offer, because I care about your safety and well-being.”

The corner of Zagreus’ mouth twitches, “You sound like such a dad.”

Achilles shrugs, “Maybe that’s because I _am_ one.”

He thinks about what he would do if he found out that Pyrrhus or Amaltheia were spending their nights in the basement of a gym because they were no longer welcome in their home (and he cannot even begin to fathom it, because he would never kick either of his children out of the house to begin with—no matter how their feelings toward one another might change as the years continue to tick on, the idea that he could _ever_ be so cruel to either of his babies makes his chest _ache_ ). He, admittedly, knows very little about Hades and Zagreus’ relationship, save for what the lad has told him in confidence and what Hades had told him in an effort to secure his son a job. And Hades had somehow managed to paint his son in the most damning light possible—

—and also make Achilles feel an almost _desperate_ need to protect him, by whatever means necessary.

There’s a long pause, during which Achilles studies Zagreus’ face and Zagreus studies the key. He doesn’t know whether the younger man will take the key, but… he _hopes_ that he will. (For a brief moment, he wonders if he should have consulted Patroclus before handing over a copy of the key to their house—but then he remembers that Zagreus spent the night sleeping in the basement of the gym (or, at least, he _thinks_ that that’s what happened—despite the story Zagreus continues to insist upon) and decides that his husband would be more upset if he _didn’t_ ).

“Love hurts.” Zagreus repeats, his voice soft and just a little breathy. Achilles is no longer certain that they’re talking about Thanatos.

“It does.” He nods. “Especially if you’ve spent so long conditioning yourself to not feel anything at all.” He thinks back to the way his chest had tightened when he’d realized how long it’d been since he’d told Patroclus that he loved him. It wasn’t that he ever _stopped_ loving him, just…

It was so much easier, to not feel anything at all.

And he wishes that there was a way for him to _explain_ that to Patroclus without feeling like absolute scum for _once again_ proving himself to be unworthy of the other’s affections…

“I’ll take the key.” Zagreus concedes, after a long moment. He picks the key up and slips it in-between his fingers, “I really do spend most of my nights on Than’s couch, so I can’t promise that I’ll ever take you up on actually _using_ it, but… truly, it means a lot that you would even think to offer.”

“Well,” Achilles offers him a tight-lipped smile that does little to hide the relief that’s reflected in his sea-green eyes. “I sincerely hope that you never again have reason to take me up on my offer—but it remains open all the same.”

“…Does loving Patroclus hurt?” As soon as he asks, Zagreus looks like he wishes he could take the question back.

Achilles’ smile falters ever so slightly. “I…” He seems to consider his next words carefully, “Some days are easier than others, though it’s… admittedly, not getting any easier as time wears on. Although… I suspect that our situations might be a little bit different, at least in regards to the reason why we’re having trouble… _connecting_.”

Zagreus stares at him for a moment, before offering, “You don’t think you’re worthy of him?”

“I _know_ I’m not worthy of him.”

Zagreus shrugs, “Then, our situations… might not be so different, after all.”

* * *

Thanatos is not an unattractive young man. He may not be Achilles’ type (Achilles is not ashamed to admit that Patroclus is the only person he’s ever found _remotely_ attractive—not that he’s all that inclined to _act_ on that attraction, not now (if it weren’t for the fact that chronic, mind-numbing pain has to be at the very tippy-top of the list of things that are absolutely _not sexy_ , the cocktail of anti-depressants he’s on has the unfortunate side-effect of making his sex-drive near non-existent—he can’t remember the last time that he and Patroclus had had sex, and while most of the time he can convince himself that he doesn’t really miss it, he _does_ miss the intimacy of the act)), but Achilles can acknowledge beauty when he sees it. And Thanatos is almost _ethereally_ beautiful.

He’s tall—he has about a head on Achilles, which means he likely _towers_ over the lad—with dark skin, and long-ish hair that’s very near the color of starlight. It’s twisted up on top of his head in a messy bun, revealing that much of the hair underneath (about halfway up the back of his scalp) had been shorn off. His amber eyes are hidden away behind thick-rimmed black glasses, which sit low on a sharply pointed nose. His full, pink lips are pulled down into a frown, which, from the deep creases in his forehead, Achilles suspects may just be his natural expression. He’s wearing a pair of black and purple butterfly-print scrubs (Achilles happens to think that they would look _fabulous_ on Patroclus, his husband could never have too many scrubs…).

The gym is closed, but he hardly thinks that Thanatos has come intending to workout in _that_ , so he bites his tongue and waits for the other man to speak. After a moment, he wanders over to the front desk, looking a little lost. “You must be… Mr. Pelides.” He says, “I’m looking for Zag… _reus_.”

Achilles blinks. _Straight to the point, then_. “You’re Thanatos, right?” The younger man gives a quick nod, “The lad’s told me quite a bit about you. Only good things, I promise.” He’s quick to assure, when the crease between Thanatos’ brows seems to deepen. “You said that you’re here for Zagreus?”

“Hmm…” Another quick nod, “His car broke down a couple weeks back. He’s been walking back to the apartment since then, but… He’s been staying later, recently, and I don’t want him walking back in the dark.”

Achilles offers a genuine smile at that, “So you’ve come to drive him home? That’s so thoughtful of you, lad.”

“I just…” Thanatos takes a deep breath, color rising to his cheeks, “It would be really unfortunate if the idiot didn’t look both ways before crossing the street and got hit by a car or something. That’s all.”

“Right.” He chuckles. Thanatos is easy enough to read—one almost has to wonder why the lad is having such a hard time of it. “Zagreus, could you come out here for a second?!”

Zagreus comes running, perhaps having heard Achilles’ tone and having assumed that something bad had happened. “What’s the matter, Ach—Than? What are you—I thought that I told you that I would be home around ten?” Achilles flinches; the gym closes at _seven-thirty_. Just how far has Zagreus been walking?

Thanatos doesn’t meet his eyes, “I… I’d finished my shift, so I’d thought…”

Zagreus sucks in a sharp breath, “Did you… come all this way just to offer me a ride home, Than?”

“Maybe.” Thanatos bites down on his bottom lip. His burnt bronze lip ring flashes in the gym’s soft lighting, “And it’s not like it’s _that_ far out of my way.”

Zagreus’ lips twist into a gentle smile, “It’s a completely different exit on the highway.”

And Achilles… he actually, _genuinely_ needs Zagreus to stay. They still have to make their way through the bulk of the closing checklist, which, unfortunately, includes a multitude of items that Achilles cannot physically do on his own (at least, not without a significant amount of pain and the potential of being absolutely unable to move come tomorrow). But… Zagreus has always been a terrific worker, and he’d been so kind to him that morning when he was still struggling with the effects of missing that first dose of medication. And while Thanatos would never admit to it, he can see that the younger man’s bags are _packed_. He was exhausted after spending _hours_ on his feet dealing with patients who were struggling with some of the most difficult moments in their lives…

And he’d still come all this way just to make sure that Zagreus made it back to the apartment safe and sound. That… That was definitely something _more_ than just friendship. And Achilles wasn’t going to be the one to stand in the way of such a grand, romantic gesture—even if it meant he’d spend the rest of the night closing up shop all by himself. It certainly wasn’t how he’d intended to spend his night—and it meant that there was absolutely no way that he’d be able to make it home early, as he’d promised Pyrrhus—

But then Zagreus latches himself onto Thanatos’ side and offers him a dopey little smile, and Thanatos complains about him being too ‘clingy’ and makes absolutely no effort to push him off… and he knows that he’s doing the right thing, in letting them leave together.

_One_ of them deserves to have a good night, at least.

He… should probably call Patroclus, and tell him not to expect him home anytime soon.

Thanatos is looking at Zagreus like he doesn’t quite believe that he’s real. “You… didn’t come home last night.” Achilles doesn’t think he was supposed to hear that, so he’s just going to pretend that he didn’t. “You can’t just ask to crash on my couch and then _not show up_.”

_Because… I was worried_.

“I’m sorry.” But Zagreus is smiling too bright for his apology to be in any way believable.

“Is that right?” Thanatos nibbles on his lip ring—a nervous habit, perhaps?—as he stares at the younger man, looking _entirely_ unimpressed.

“Achilles?” Zagreus turns to him then, his mismatched eyes wide and hopeful. “I know that there’s still some work to do, but is there any way I might be able to persuade you to let me duck out a little early tonight?” He juts out his bottom lip and bats his eyes, like Achilles would _actually_ need convincing.

“Sure thing, lad.” Zagreus blinks—apparently, he hadn’t thought that it would _actually_ be that easy. Hmm. “You two be safe, and have a good night, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Really?” He’s not _that_ much of a hardass, is he? He doesn’t think so… When Achilles doesn’t immediately shut him down, he offers Thanatos an excited, “Stay right there, okay? I’ll be right back!”

Thanatos looks at Zagreus, nonplussed. “I came all the way here… why would I leave without you?”

He… doesn’t understand how Zagreus could interpret the look in Thanatos’ amber eyes as anything other than pure, unadulterated _love_. Though, he supposes that he has the benefit of experience on his side. Even if Zagreus and Thanatos _are_ childhood friends, Achilles has a good nine to ten years’ on them both—and he’s spent most of those years with Pat. He _knows_ that Thanatos is looking on him in love, because that’s the same way that Pat used to look at him. That’s the way that Pat _still_ looks at him, in those moments where Achilles can stifle his own insecurities long enough to be around him for extended periods of time. Thanatos is looking at Zagreus like the lad is the other half of his soul… like he _completes_ him.

Thanatos waits, ever the epitome of patience. Achilles thinks about starting up a conversation with him to pass the time, but he cannot think of any topics that the younger man might like to talk about. And so he sits and tries to decide what tasks absolutely need to be completed before he leaves—and tries to determine what he can _reasonably_ do, without asking too much of his already aching body. Thanatos picks at his already peeling nail polish, bits of ebony lacquer breaking off and fluttering to the ground.

Achilles decides that they’re going to make a cute couple—once they finally get their shit together.

“Alright, I’m ready!” Zagreus latches right back onto Thanatos’ side, much to the other man’s chagrin. Thanatos blushes furiously, before averting his gaze—”Have a good night, Achilles, sir!”

And then they’re off—Zagreus babbling happily about everything and nothing, Thanatos looking like he wants to crawl into a hole to hide his mounting mortification. Adorable.

He picks up the phone and dials Patroclus’ cell phone number. Patroclus, unsurprisingly, picks up on the second ring, _“Achilles? Is everything alright? You rarely ever call me from work—,”_

“Hmm? Oh, yeah—everything is fine. I just… I had to send Zagreus home early, so I wanted to let you know that I’ll probably be getting home late. I know I… I told Pyrrhus that I would try to make it home early tonight, but that’s just not feasible now…” He feels bad. He doesn’t like knowing that he’s letting his son down.

And Patroclus, bless his heart, doesn’t chastise him for breaking his promise. (Honestly, he thinks he might break down if Patroclus makes like he _might_ yell at him). Instead, he asks, _“Is Zagreus alright? He’s not sick, is he?”_

“He’s not sick.” Achilles confirms, “As for whether or not he’s okay… I think he will be, now.”

_“Okay,”_ Patroclus says, “ _Just… promise me that you’ll be careful, alright? Do you want me to come down there and help you close up? Or… I can always call Briseis. She didn’t leave that long ago—I’m sure she’d be more than happy to come over and help you to close up for the night.”_

Achilles shakes his head, even if he knows that Patroclus cannot see it. “I don’t need the help.” He winces—he hadn’t meant for that to come out quite so sharply, “Sorry. Sorry, I—,”

_“It’s okay, Achilles. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”_ Patroclus sounds _so very tired_ , and Achilles wants to cry. _He deserves so much better_.

He takes a deep breath, “Nyx is probably still in her studio. If I need help, I’ll ask her, alright?” Patroclus doesn’t say anything, so Achilles assumes that this is an acceptable alternative. “I love you.”

_“Hmm…”_ There’s a long pause, and for a moment, he doesn’t think that Patroclus is going to respond. Then, _“I love you, too.”_ And then he ends the call.

* * *

Patroclus is mad at him.

Patroclus is mad at him, and he doesn’t have any more pain medication in his desk in his office in the basement.

Patroclus is mad at him, and he doesn’t have any more pain medication in his desk in his office in the basement, and there are too many machines for him to _ever_ hope to finish them all before the air conditioning cuts off at ten o’clock. And the last thing that he needs is to end up overheated on top of everything else.

Is he crying? He thinks that he might be crying.

Sniffling, he takes a seat on one of the treadmills and buries his face in his hands, his calloused fingertips growing wet with the tears that’re leaking from the corners of his eyes. He should’ve taken Patroclus up on his offer to drive over and help him—he could’ve asked him to bring some more of his pain medicine (Briseis would’ve brought him his medicine as well, as well as some of that herbal paste that has a wonderfully numbing effect on his aching joints). Now, he rubs his leg, considering the dozens of machines that he still has to finish wiping down before he leaves for the night…

The door to the gym opens—he didn’t bother to lock it after Zagreus had left; there wasn’t a point, not until he was heading out for the night. He doesn’t bother to look up, not until he hears a familiar voice call, “Achilles? Achilles, are you alright? I saw that the light was still on…”


	5. I'll Be Your Best Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! This will probably be the last update that I'm able to churn out before my finals start next week. It'll be a little over a week until the next update (my last final is on Saturday, December 5). So stay tuned, and I hope you enjoy <3

“Nyx?” He’d told Patroclus that Nyx would likely still be in her studio, but he hadn’t expected her to come over to check on him of her own volition. “I… yes, I’m alright. I was just taking a little breather, that’s all.”

“Oh? Isn’t Zagreus supposed to be helping you with that…?” She raises a brow. Achilles studies the bits of acrylic paint that stain the tips of Nyx’s long, thin fingers. When he doesn’t answer her, she asks, “I don’t suppose that I can be of any assistance? I… can’t claim to know much about how to maintain a gym…”

“I… couldn’t ask you to do that. Aren’t you busy with commissions?” Now that she’s _here_ , he doesn’t know how to ask her for the help that he so desperately needs. He also doesn’t want to take her away from her own work—she’s never _not_ busy with her painting commissions.

“I am, indeed.” Nyx nods. “I was actually working on a piece that Patroclus commissioned—” Achilles raises a brow—he hadn’t known that Patroclus was looking to acquire any new art. “—when he called the studio.”

“He… called you?” It hadn’t occurred to him that Patroclus would reach out to Nyx _for_ him.

“He did. He sounded quite worried. I have to admit, I was expecting… well, I don’t really know _what_ I was expecting.” Nyx says, “…He truly loves you, Achilles. Even when you feel yourself underserving of his affections, or think yourself unable to return them as you ought.”

“I…” Achilles draws in a deep, shuddering breath. When she puts it like that, there’s really no use in trying to deny it, is there? “We had a bit of a… f- _fight_ when I called him earlier. Or… I _think_ it might’ve been a fight. I don’t know.”

He doesn’t even realize that Nyx has slipped the spray bottle and rag from his hands and started to clean, picking up on the machine he’d left off on—”Have you ever had an _actual_ fight with Patroclus before?”

He has to think about that for a second, “I… Admittedly, our definition of _fight_ may be a bit different than most.”

“Well…” Nyx has already finished wiping down the first machine, and has moved onto the second, “Would you like to talk about it? I’d be more than happy to lend an ear.”

“I…” Would that help? He doesn’t really know. “I suppose that it’s worth a try.”

He doesn’t talk about Patroclus, not at first. After all, he regrets to admit that he didn’t realize anything was amiss in his relationship with his husband until… well, _yesterday_ , when Zagreus had pointed out that he (and likely anyone else that hadn’t known them since middle school—so, Briseis) hadn’t realized that Achilles was married. Instead, he tells her about the _odd_ sort of relationship that he’s developing with Zagreus. Well… maybe _odd_ isn’t the right word, even if he _does_ think it odd that anyone would think someone as broken as he would make a suitable mentor.

Nyx was already familiar with much of Zagreus’ story. Hades had commissioned her, shortly after Zagreus’ birth, to paint a picture of his newborn son (the painting hangs in his office, at the far end of the strip mall—it’s the only picture of Zagreus to be seen, despite the fact that the painting is well over twenty-six years old now). He’d been so pleased with her work that he’d continued to commission her for pieces of art around his house: a portrait of his estranged wife, multiple portraits of his daughters, portraits of Cerberus, horror abstracts… the list seemed endless. She works so closely with Hades that, every once in a while, rumors start to circulate that she was at least partially responsible for the strain in Hades and Persephone’s marriage—

But that’s beside the point.

He tells her that Zagreus is head over heels for Thanatos—which, again, is not a surprise, considering that Nyx is Thanatos’ mother (and if he were half as obvious with his feelings around her as he was with Achilles, then she would have to be completely and utterly _oblivious_ to miss the budding romance between them). The _problem_ is that he recognizes that the mess that is his parents’ relationship isn’t worth emulating, and for _some_ reason, he seems to think that Achilles and Patroclus’ relationship _is_. And he… well, he _doesn’t_. He loves Patroclus more than life itself. The only person—well, _people_ —that he’s second to in Achilles’ heart are Pyrrhus and Amaltheia. And yet… he knows that he’s a shit excuse for a husband, for a father…

Zagreus should be asking _Patroclus_ for advice. He’s sure that his husband would be _more_ than willing to offer the lad some meaningful advice on _anything_ that he might be wondering about. …Actually, that’s not a half-bad idea. He should really work on putting the two of them in contact with one another.

Achilles looks up, about to ask Nyx her opinion on his idea, when he realizes that Nyx is clear across the room, cleaning off the last of the machines. He blinks—has he really been talking for that long? No, she’s just moving that fast. A little less than five minutes later, she returns, rag and spray bottle in hand.

“I think…” she sets the items down, before wiping the excess cleaning fluid off on her high-waited black jeans. “Zagreus came to you because he _trusts_ you. Even if you do not understand it… you shouldn’t question it.”

Achilles bites his lip, “But… what if I can’t be what he needs?”

Nyx is silent for a moment, considering. Then, “Zagreus is at a difficult point in his life. He… He ran away from home, last year. Spent three months on the west coast—said that he wanted to see his mother. I… paid for his plane ticket.” Achilles hadn’t heard about _this_ before. “Persephone spent a week with him, before telling him he couldn’t stay.”

Achilles frowns, “I thought that you said that he spent three months out there?”

“He did.” Nyx averts her eyes, “He was… too devastated to admit that his mother had turned him away. He had always thought that life with her would be so much better than life with Hades. And I… I will admit that there was a time where I thought the same.”

“And now?” Achilles asks.

“Now, I think he’s better off here. Not necessarily with Hades,” The idea of the lad going back to live with his father sends a shiver down Achilles’ spine, “I think he needs someone to show him he doesn’t need his mother, or his father, or _anyone_ … He needs someone to help him be able to stand on his own two feet.”

Achilles finds himself unable to meet her gaze. He doesn’t understand what it is that she seems to see in him—what _everyone else_ seems to see in him. “And… you think that I can be that person for him?”

There is a pause, then, “I _know_ that you can be that person for him. Do you know why?”

“I… can’t say that I do.” Achilles says.

“Because Zagreus chose to reach out to you.” _Because Zagreus_ trusts _you,_ is what he hears—even if he doesn’t necessarily understand it.

If anything, he would’ve thought that the moral of Nyx’s story was that Zagreus’ judgment was questionable at best. He… hadn’t known that the lad had run away (it seemed weird to refer to it as ‘running away’, when the lad hadn’t been his father’s _legal_ obligation for over eight years now—he could come and go as he pleased, even if it _pleased_ him to travel to the other side of the world to be with his mother), but it didn’t surprise him. It certainly cleared up a few things about his budding relationship with Thanatos.

…He’d run away, once upon a time. At the time, he’d been younger than Zagreus—much younger. Newly graduated from high school, with Patroclus’ ring fresh upon his finger. He’d already told Patroclus yes—a thousand times, _yes_ —but Patroclus had wanted to do things right, had wanted to ask for permission from Achilles’ mom. (His dad had never had an active role in his life, having filed for divorce from his mother when she was six months’ pregnant with him. It’d never bothered him, though his mother was still bitter over the break-up some thirty-six years later (or, at least, he _thought_ that she was still bitter about it—he couldn’t be sure, considering that he hadn’t talked to his mother in almost eighteen-years-now). But his mom… well, she’d said no.

It wasn’t because he was marrying another man. He’d always be grateful for the way that his mother had just… _accepted_ him, without him having to say more than a handful of words. It was because he was marrying Patroclus. And Achilles wouldn’t be convinced to marry another… so he’d run. They’d eloped, tying the knot in a courthouse on the outskirts of town. Achilles had always held that, when they had the resources, they’d do things right (although Patroclus assured him, time and again, that he was more than happy with the way things had gone). But then… Achilles had enlisted, and Patroclus had spent four years in undergrad, before enlisting himself. After one tour of duty, he’d applied to medical school—and after that, Pyrrhus had been born.

Which is… a rather _roundabout_ way of saying that he understands. Even if they’re circumstances had been different. Maybe he’d share the story with Zagreus, one day. His eyes skirt down to the place where his ring had once lain—it’d been even _longer_ since he’d worn his engagement ring—

(It’d taken him nearly a year to be able to afford a ring—the diamond was on the smaller side, and a little cloudy, but Achilles had loved it desperately. It currently sat in his jewelry box, alongside his actual wedding band).

And then he realizes… God, has it _really_ been _eighteen years_ since they’d gotten married?

Nyx places her hands on her hips, “Was there anything else that you needed to do before heading out for the night?”

He blinks, the realization that the gym looks absolutely spotless—it’s practically _gleaming_ , in a way that it certainly doesn’t do when he tries to clean it himself—drawing him from his thoughts. “I… I don’t think so. I don’t know how you managed to do all that so fast, but… _thank you_. I’m forever in your debt.”

Nyx shakes her head, “There is nothing to thank me for, love. I just did what I could… I know that, were our positions reversed, you would have done the same.” She smiles, “Go home to your family, Achilles.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I should definitely… _do that_.” He goes to stand, only to realize that he’s sitting too close to the ground—it wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem, except that he’s put considerable strain on his leg today. “Uh… _fuck_.”

Nyx doesn’t even ask. She extends a hand and braces herself, pulling him up off the ground. “There you are.”

Achilles hesitated for only a moment, before accepting her hand. He’s… definitely going to regret sitting like that for the rest of the night—and probably tomorrow, too. But… “Thank you, Nyx. For everything.” He grips the handle of his cane until his knuckles turn white, “Can I walk you back to your studio? It’s awfully late, and—,”

She nods, “If you would be so kind…”

It's not until he's in the car some twenty minutes later that he realizes Nyx had effectively distracted him from his 'fight' with Patroclus. 

...And maybe, just maybe, that'd been her plan all along.

* * *

The house is dark by the time Achilles arrives home, and yet… he still sits in the car for half an hour after pulling into the garage, hoping to minimize the chances of running into Patroclus. He feels a little bit better about the ‘fight’ that they’d had (really, it was hardly the first time that Patroclus had heard Achilles raise his voice—he just didn’t ordinarily raise his voice at _him_ ). He still doesn’t feel quite up to seeing him (and he’s definitely not ready to see Pyrrhus—he already knows that that’s going to go (spoiler alert: _not well at all_ )). So he sits in the car and stares at the various stickers on the windshield. He’ll have to put aside a time to schedule an oil change… and is it really almost time to have the car inspected again? He could’ve sworn that he had a couple of months yet…

The door to the garage opens—with considerably less force than it had when Pyrrhus had thrown it open the night before—and Patroclus pokes his head inside, flipping on the lights. His husband looks _tired_. His dark hair is pulled up into a messy bun (he always puts it up after he washes it, to minimize the tangles he has to rake through in the morning). He’s wearing the gag gift that he and Pyrrhus had gotten him for Christmas last year: a plain white t-shirt with the words ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ written in bold print comic sans and covered in about a pound and a half of glitter. Patroclus had chuckled about it at the time (though whether it was because he appreciated the joke, or he knew that everything in the house would be covered in glitter within _hours_ , who could tell?).

His boxers had clearly seen better days. He should probably—definitely—pick him up a couple new pairs when he next goes to the store (is that weird to be thinking about right now? Probably…). Patroclus shuffles over to the car, knocking aside one of Pyrrhus’ toy trucks with his bare feet. It rolls over toward the washing machine, colliding with the metal with a soft _thunk_. Achilles rolls down the window, trying his best to smile as Patroclus leans on the driver’s side door and pokes his head inside.

“Are you planning on spending the night out here?” It’s a familiar question, though he’s not usually sitting in his car contemplating the expiration date on his inspection stickers when Patroclus asks it.

“No, I…” He swallows hard, his eyes flitting down to his injured leg. “I hate to ask you this, Pat, but would you mind bringing me my—” Before he can even finish asking, Patroclus is pressing a small, red pill into his hand. “How did you know that I…?” He takes the pill, regardless.

Patroclus shrugs, “Call it a hunch.” He bites his lip, “How are things at the gym? Did you get everything done?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He’s silent for a moment, before offering, “I… didn’t expect you to call Nyx.”

Patroclus tenses, “I… I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.” He takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry if that upset you. Is that why you’ve been sitting out here in the car for the last half-hour…?”

“I… no. It’s alright. I… Nyx was really helpful, and we had a really enlightening chat about Zagreus.” She’d even helped him to shed some light on his relationship with Patroclus, as well. Even if it _had_ been her intention to take his mind off of the little ‘spat’ they’d had. “Thank you for that. I would’ve been there all night, otherwise.”

Patroclus doesn’t seem entirely convinced, “Really? Because you seemed really adamant about not wanting—or needing—any help when we talked on the phone.”

Achilles takes a deep, shuddering breath, “It’s… _hard_ for me to admit that I need help, sometimes. I… I really want to be able to do everything that I can for myself, for as long as I can.” He meets Patroclus’ eyes, “But that doesn’t mean that I should have snapped at you like that. I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, love.” Patroclus says, though he does seem a bit happier to hear Achilles’ apology. “I’m just glad that everything worked out in the end.”

“I’m still sorry.” And then, softer, “For more than you know.”

“What was that?” Patroclus asks.

“Nothing,” Achilles forces a smile.

It takes a little while for the medicine to kick in. Patroclus seems more than happy to pass the time with him out in the garage, though he feels bad for pulling him away from his much-needed rest. There’s also no air-conditioning in the garage (which is, unfortunately, calling attention to the fact that he hadn’t bathed since… well, he can’t really remember when). He’s more than a little self-conscious about it, though he doesn’t know whether Patroclus has noticed (and even if he _did_ notice, he would never call attention to it—he might _gently_ recommend that they take a bath together at some point in the near future, like… _now_ , but he’d never come right out and tell Achilles that he stank). But he’s a bit desperate for the closeness with his husband, so he tries to tamp down his embarrassment.

He thinks about asking after Pyrrhus. He knows that he’d promised he’d come home early, if only to assuage the little boy’s fears that something would happen to him while he was out of the house—but he still holds that he’d done the right thing in letting Zagreus leave early. He _also_ knows that the little boy has quite the temper (one of the more unfortunate traits that he’d inherited from Achilles). Achilles wouldn’t be surprised if he’d lashed out at Patroclus, seeing him as an easy target—and that broke Achilles’ heart.

Patroclus must notice the way that Achilles’ mood has shifted, because he reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind Achilles’ ear… his hand trailing down to trace along the sharp curve of the other man’s jaw. He tilts Achilles’ head back, forcing his husband to make eye contact with him.

Exhausted brown eyes meet exhausted sea-glass green.

“What’s the matter, love?” He asks. Achilles is disinclined to answer, but… he doesn’t want the rift between himself and Patroclus to grow any bigger, either.

He takes a deep breath, “I was… actually wondering how your conversation went with Pyrrhus.”

Patroclus blinks. A long moment of silence stretches between them, and Achilles wonders whether or not he’s going to answer. Then, “He… told me that he’d had a dream about you dying, and that he’d asked to go to the gym with you today to… well, to keep an eye on you, and you’d turned him down.”

Achilles nods, “I… I don’t like telling him no, but I really don’t think he’d enjoy himself. There’s not really anything for him to do, and I can’t keep an eye on him the whole time, and—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Achilles. I understand. And… I think that he’ll understand, too. Once he calms down a bit.” Patroclus bites his lip, “He had a bit of a tantrum. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but he bumped into the kitchen table and knocked over a glass and—”

“Is he alright?!” Achilles asks—he supposed that he doesn’t really need to panic, seeing as Patroclus seems calm enough about it, and he _was_ there. But he can’t help that that was his first instinct.

“He’s fine, don’t worry.” Patroclus adds. “Though I… I can’t promise that he won’t say something hurtful the next time that your paths cross. Just… please know that he doesn’t mean it, and try not to take it too personally. I know that it’s easier said than done, but…”

“Oh,” His shoulders sag a little—he cannot help but feel like he deserves it, even if he still holds he did the right thing.

“You don’t need to be sorry, love.” Patroclus says, again. Just because he keeps saying it doesn’t make it true, though. “I’m just glad that Zagreus is alright. What happened with him, anyway?”

Achilles licks his lips, “His dad kicked him out, and I think he spent last night sleeping in the gym.” All of the color drains out of Patroclus’ face—like Achilles, it has likely occurred to him that there is no air-conditioning in the gym at night. “And his car broke down, so he’s been _walking_ back to his friend’s house every night.”

“You didn’t let him walk home, did you?” Patroclus asks.

Achilles looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head, “What? No! His boyfriend—well, his soon-to-be boyfriend—drove three miles out of his way to come pick him up and it was just so cute, I couldn’t say no.”

Patroclus’ lips twist up into a genuine smile, “That _is_ rather cute.”

The medicine has kicked in at this point, and he feels comfortable enough putting weight on his injured leg to get out of the car and walk into the house. He thinks about crashing in the living room—but Patroclus had been so kind as to wait up for him, even though he had to be up at an absolutely _horrific_ time tomorrow morning—so he decides to spend the night in the bedroom. That being said, he _is_ tired. He doesn’t bother changing out of his clothes, just plops face-first onto the mattress (a position that is rapidly becoming a favorite for sleeping).

Patroclus is not far behind, though it appears that he’d made a detour in the kitchen to grab Achilles some leftovers. He’s not all that hungry, but he hasn’t eaten all day (he didn’t drink any of the water that Briseis had him take with him that morning, either—which is a bit not good, considering that he shouldn’t be taking his meds on an empty stomach).

He sets a bowl of curry on the bedside table (it’s mild—he can’t handle anything _too_ heavily spiced with his stomach ulcer (another _wonderful_ side-effect of all of the opioids that he’s taking). But just in case, Patroclus has also brought him a glass of whole milk. His stomach rumbles— _loudly_. Patroclus is an _unfairly_ talented cook.

“Thank you, Pat.” He makes no move to grab the food, however. Patroclus seems to notice this, because he motions for Achilles to sit up—which Achilles does, begrudgingly—and takes a seat near his legs.

He picks up the bowl and scoops up a spoonful of curry and rice, holding it out for Achilles. “Come on, love. Just a couple of bites, and then I’ll let you sleep. You’ve had another long day, and Briseis told me that you had a lot of pain this morning—”

Achilles eyes widen a bit, “This morning was fine!” He exclaims, in a way which communicates that that morning most definitely had not been fine. And then, in an effort to change the topic, he asks, “Are you… _really_ going to feed me?” Color rises in his cheeks, but he doesn’t seem entirely put-off by the idea.

“Absolutely,” Patroclus grins, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Unless you have a problem with that?”

Achilles shakes his head, “N-No, I… I mean, I don’t _need_ you to feed me, obviously, but… if that’s something that you would _like_ to do, then… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“It’s definitely something that I would like to do.” He presses the spoon to Achilles’ lips, and the younger man opens up, taking everything that he was offered. “Good boy. Do you think you can do another bite for me?”

Achilles feels a little dizzy, with the way that his heart is thumping frantically in his chest. _He wants to be Patroclus’ good boy. It’s been such a long time since he was Patroclus’ good boy._ “I… _yes_. I can… I can do another.”

Patroclus smiles, scooping up another spoonful of curry. “Good.”


	6. These Walls Between Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I was really not expecting the tremendous wave of feedback that I received for the last chapter! Thank you guys for all of the love and support on this fic--I'm really excited to be able to offer you a new chapter <3

“And… that’s the last of it.” Patroclus shows him the bowl, which has been scraped clean. Achilles almost doesn’t believe it—it certainly doesn’t feel like he’s eaten an entire bowl of curry, but then the bowl had only been about halfway full to begin with. “How are you feeling?”

Achilles lays a hand over his stomach, “I’m… full. Not stuffed, but… _pleasantly_ full. I… I really don’t think that I could stomach anymore, but… _thank you_ , for this.” He stares at his husband, more than a little bit in awe. “What possessed you to make curry for dinner tonight? I know that Pyrrhus doesn’t usually eat it—”

Patroclus’ teeth sink into his bottom lip as he contemplates how to respond. Then, “Well, it _was_ supposed to be date night. I know that we haven’t actually had one in a while, but when Pyrrhus said that you were coming home early I thought ‘what the hell’.” He shrugs, “I’m glad that I _did_ make it, though, even if…”

Achilles’ eyes widen, “I… I-I’m _so_ sorry! It’s been so long, I… I didn’t even remember that tonight was _supposed_ to be date night.” The fact that Patroclus not only _remembered_ , but had made a special meal _just in case_ —

“It’s alright, Achilles. I’m not mad.” But it’s _not_ alright. “Please don’t cry, darling. We can spend _this_ time together, _now_. That’s more than enough for me.” His thumbs sweep up over Achilles’ sculpted cheeks, catching stray tears.

He takes a deep breath, “Will you… tell me about your day, then? Did anything interesting happen at the hospital?”

Patroclus sets the bowl aside, before shifting a little to make himself more comfortable on the bed. “Well… I can’t say that anything _too_ interesting happened. But I suppose that’s a good thing, considering my line of work.” The corner of his mouth twitches, “I, uh… I spoke with Theseus again today.”

Achilles’ frowns, a few more tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, “You did.”

“I did.” Patroclus confirms, “He is… an _annoyingly_ stubborn one, I’ll give him that.”

Achilles is well-aware of the fact that Patroclus has to tread lightly when it comes to Theseus’ advances. As the hospital director, he doesn’t have _direct_ influence over Patroclus’ job—but he can exert pressure in the right places to make it all-too-convenient for Patroclus’ boss to kick him to the curb. And while Patroclus spends most of his time at the private practice he runs with Hypnos, a young sleep therapist (who also happens to be Thanatos’ twin brother), and Apollo, an anesthesiologist (who puts folks under for procedures that can be performed in-office), if he gets booted from the hospital, he’ll lose access to the operating theatre. And what use is a neurosurgeon that cannot actually perform surgery?

Achilles _would_ tell him to file a complaint with HR, if it weren’t for the fact that the head of HR, Asterius, has his head shoved so far up Theseus’ ass they might as well be the same person. Patroclus has mentioned on _several_ occasions that he thinks the two of them might be dating (which, conflict of interest much?), which makes the whole business of flirting with Patroclus on the daily even _more_ awkward and uncomfortable. Achilles can’t help but worry that, if he _were_ to file a complaint, it would somehow result in him losing his job all the same. And he… he doesn’t know what to do, what to advise _Patroclus_ to do. He hates the thought of Patroclus being forced to deal with that swine, day in and day out, but…

He's reminded of their senior year of high school, when their ‘friend’ (he uses the term _very_ loosely—Achilles had always been the charismatic sort, who attracted all sorts of would-be friends to his side; now, after everything, the only ones that’re still hanging around are Patroclus and Briseis) Hector had gotten a bit too handsy with Patroclus. Achilles had almost gotten himself expelled after he’d broken his wrist in three different places. Patroclus had been _pissed_ , but Hector had never bothered him again, so Achilles considered the cold shoulder well-worth it.

Now… he doesn’t think he could break Theseus’ wrist, even if he _wanted_ to. And he really doesn’t _want_ to. For one, the bastard would probably find some way to make himself out to be a martyr and use it to endear himself to Patroclus, instead of taking it as a warning and considering himself lucky that Achilles didn’t do worse. There’s also the fact that he’s not seventeen anymore—breaking a grown man’s wrist was pretty much a one-way ticket to a jail cell. And he doesn’t want that to be the way that his kids remember him.

It’s just a bad situation all around.

“Hey, now.” Patroclus cups his chin, tilting his face back so that swollen, red-rimmed sea glass eyes meet warm, chocolate brown. “I’m not telling you this to get you _more_ upset, you know.”

“I know.” But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still upset him, and they both know this.

“Everything will work out, one way or another.” Patroclus continues, “I’ll keep telling him that I have a wonderful husband that’s twice the man he’ll ever be, and maybe, someday, he’ll learn to understand the meaning of the word ‘no’.” He sounds so _confident_ , like it’s only a matter of time.

“I know.” Though he doesn’t quite agree with the fact that he’s twice the man that Theseus is, he’s too tired to argue the point right now. And he’s still clinging, a bit desperately, to the fact that they _were_ having a good night.

“Until then, it’s more than enough for me to know that you know I’ll never let him do anything.” Patroclus smiles, his gaze a little sorrowful. “I know that you’ve always been my protector, Achilles, but… this time, trust that I can take care of myself. You’re the only one that I want. Always and forever.”

“I know that.” Achilles whispers, “I just… don’t understand why.” Patroclus wasn’t meant to hear that, but he did. Of course he did. And though he’s smiling, Achilles can see the way that the words break his heart.

“You don’t need to understand why, then.” Patroclus says. “Just know that it’s true. Can you do that for me?”

Achilles’ tears start falling afresh, “I-I don’t deserve you.”

Patroclus shakes his head, “You deserve me, and our little family, and the life that we’ve built together, and so much more. I know that you don’t believe me now, and that’s okay. I’ll keep saying it as many times as you need to hear it.” He offers a small, warbling smile, “Oh, darling… how long have you been holding these tears in?”

The blond sniffles, shaking his head violently, “I-I’m _tired_ of crying! I cry _all the damn time_ , over _nothing_!” Well, not over _nothing_ , but it certainly _feels_ like nothing when he never used to cry this much before.

Patroclus cradles him in his arms, allowing him to hide his messy face in the ridiculous gag gift that they’d bought for him last year for Christmas. A couple of pieces of hair have fallen down from the bun, and they tickle Achilles face as he struggles valiantly against his sobs. He knows that he’ll feel better if he allows himself to have a proper cry (this has been building since _at least_ that morning, but perhaps longer), but he hates having Patroclus see him this way. He hates that he can’t keep the waterworks under wraps for the brief period of time that he’s able to spend with his husband. Patroclus hums softly, dragging his fingers through Achilles hair as he rocks them back and forth. He’s humming something underneath his breath—

Achilles eyes flutter as he sucks in a deep, rasping breath. Patroclus moves to settle one broad hand on his stomach, his thick, calloused fingers gently massaging the skin just underneath Achilles’ shirt. Where once there had been a rippling six-pack, there is now smooth, lightly freckled skin, distended ever so slightly from all of the curry that he’d eaten. It really hadn’t been that much food, but it was more than he was used to eating in one sitting—there were days where he went without consuming anything more substantial than a meal replacement shake, and days where Zagreus would order two extra servings of large fries from McDonalds because something drenched in saturated fats and salt was better than nothing at all.

It takes him quite a while to be able to calm down. Patroclus waits, patient as ever. He is clearly concerned, but he doesn’t press the matter—he lets Achilles cling to him, muttering incoherently underneath his breath. His hand snakes up a little higher, till he feels the rapid-fire _thump-thump-thump_ of Achilles’ heart. His lips curl down ever so slightly when he realizes just how _fast_ Achilles’ heart is beating… Gently, he pries one of Achilles’ hands off of his back and brings it around to press against his chest.

“Sweetheart? Can you take a couple of deep breaths for me?” Achilles shakes his head, burying his face even deeper into the fabric of Patroclus’ shirt. “C’mon now, Achilles. Just a couple of deep breaths. Try and match me—” He closes his fingers around Achilles’ hand, “In… and out. In… and out.”

“I-I-I…” Achilles sniffles loudly. And then he starts coughing, his body rejecting all of the mucus that’s obstructing his throat. “I don’t want to _hurt_ anymore, Pat.”

Patroclus nods, “I know. I know. I wish that there was something more that I could do for you.” He hates to know that Achilles is hurting, and there’s not a damned thing that he can do about it. “Do you think that a bath would help? I… don’t think that we have a hot compress large enough to cover your leg from heel to knee…”

“I… I _don’t_ … I mean…” Achilles draws in another shuddering breath, “Not just my _leg_. I don’t want to hurt _at all_. I just… I want it to _stop_.” He sobs, breathless.

Tears burn in the corners of Patroclus’ eyes, “I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry—”

“Y-You don’t need to… to _apologize_. None of this is your fault.” The younger man wheezes, “It’s not your fault that I’m… _like this_. That I’m bro—”

“Achilles,” Patroclus’ voice is tight, “there are not words to describe how _angry_ that I’ll be if you finish that sentence. You are _not_ broken, and I _never_ want to hear you talk about yourself like that again.” He says, his tone brokering no room for argument.

“But I _am_ —” That isn’t about to stop Achilles from trying to argue the point, anyhow.

“You’re _not_. You have a chemical imbalance in your brain, darling.” Patroclus continues, “I know you don’t like it when I throw a bunch of medical jargon at you, but it’s true. And I’m sorry that that’s not something that I can cut you open and correct with something like a… a stent. But… think of it like… like a _cup_.”

He can feel the way that Achilles’ lips turn down into a half-pout, half-frown, “A… cup?”

“Mhmm…” Patroclus nods, a few more stray hairs falling from his bun. “If I break a cup into sizeable pieces, I can conceivably glue it back together and the cup will more or less be able to function like a cup. That’s like when I put in a stent to ease the pressure off of a bleeding brain.”

Achilles draws back a little. He looks adorably confused—but he’s no longer sobbing, so Patroclus takes that as a good sign. “So… what are you trying to tell me, Pat?”

Patroclus takes a deep breath, “Depression is like… take that same cup, and _shatter_ it. You might be able to glue the pieces back together, but you probably won’t be able to use that cup as a _cup_ anymore. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t a million other uses for it that are just as good, or maybe even better.”

For the first time, Achilles notices that Patroclus is crying, “No, no, no, _you_ can’t start crying, too. Only one of us can be a mess at the time.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his watering eyes.

“The cups are both still _cups_. It’s just… one requires a little bit more than glue, that’s all. And that… that’s _okay_. More than okay.” He draws in a shuddering breath, “I’m sorry that, for all my years of schooling, the best I can tell you is that depression medication isn’t like a stent—it helps, but it doesn’t _fix_. I’m sorry that, for all my training, I can only understand what it is that you’re going through on a technical level. I’m sorry that this is one thing I can’t fix with a… a _stent_ or a _plates and screws_ —”

“I don’t… I don’t blame you for not being able to fix this for me, darling.” He says. If he is certain about _nothing_ else, it is this. “So please… don’t tell me that you’ve been blaming yourself, all this time.”

Patroclus doesn’t answer. Instead, he tucks Achilles’ head underneath his chin and whispers, “Just… promise me that you won’t talk about yourself like that anymore, alright? You’re not broken. A cup is a cup is a cup, Achilles.”

“A cup… is a cup, is a cup.”

* * *

Patroclus runs him a bath, despite Achilles doing his damndest to convince him that he’s fine without. But Patroclus insists that they both need something to help them relax after the… _exciting_ evening that they’d had. And when he promises that he’ll be partaking _with_ him, well… Achilles honestly can’t find it within him to refuse. Once the tub is full, Patroclus adds a couple of soothing essential oils to the mix (Achilles nearly _melts_ when Patroclus whips out the lavender—they can’t use a lot of essential oils, for fear of hurting their cat, but _lavender_ … _lavender_ is an absolute godsend). And then, after checking the temperature of the water one last time, he helps Achilles to lower himself down into the tub.

He lets out a sigh, sitting forward just enough to allow Patroclus to slide into the tub behind him. Once Patroclus is settled, he wraps his arms around Achilles’ midsection and guides him back to snuggle against his chest. They sit together like that for a moment, Achilles sea-green eyes fluttering closed as he listens to the sound of Patroclus’ heartbeat. However long after their conversation, and Patroclus’ heartbeat is _still_ calmer than his own. Patroclus’ hands are mapping out patterns on his bare belly—his husband seems so unbelievably pleased to see that there’s _still_ a slight swell from all of the food that he’d eaten. He hums softly, the water rippling around them as he strokes his hand over Achilles’ lightly freckled skin.

“Which soap do you want to use, darling?” Patroclus presses gentle, unobtrusive kisses along the length of Achilles’ neck. “If you want something with a less powerful scent, we have some of that banana-coconut body wash you like… or orange honeysuckle and vanilla…”

Achilles eyes flit toward the shelf which houses all of their bath accoutrements—they have a lot, considering that the only one who takes _regular_ baths in their house is Pyrrhus. “What did you shower with earlier?”

“The lemon peel, cypress, and cedarwood blend?” Patroclus sounds a little surprised—Achilles likes the way that he smells, of course he does, but he doesn’t usually go out of his way to smell _like_ him.

“The cedarwood oil…” Achilles hums, considering, “Isn’t cedarwood oil a natural anti-inflammatory and anti-spasmodic? That might help with my leg…” He’s almost certain that it’s going to smell absolutely _atrocious_ when mixed with the other oils already in the bath, but—

“Your foot _is_ looking a little more swollen than usual.” Patroclus concedes, “Did something happen?”

“Yeah, I… well, you know that Pyrrhus had a bad dream this morning?” Patroclus nods, “He, uh… He screamed, and I thought something had happened, so I rushed to check on him and he… he _tackled_ me.”

Patroclus frowns, “Why’re you just telling me about this _now_?!”

“Because it wasn’t his fault!” Achilles cuts in, “And I don’t want him to think that it was his fault! I should’ve braced myself better—”

“That’s not what I meant.” There’s a resounding _click_ as Patroclus pops the cap on the bottle of body wash that Achilles had picked out, “I know that I’m not _that_ kind of doctor, but I’d be able to at least tell you if there was anything broken. You might need a walking boot—”

“There’s no way that I’m wearing a walking boot.”

“And there’s no way I’m letting you exacerbate a potentially serious injury due to your pride.” Achilles fixes him with a full-on put, and Patroclus relents, ever so slightly, “At least let me look at it, darling. Please?”

With _great_ effort, he lifts his leg out of the water and places it into Patroclus’ line of vision. “There. You can look at it just fine like that, right?”

Patroclus rolls his eyes—but he concedes that Achilles had allowed him to drag him into the tub, so he ought to see the bath through before pushing his husband for more. He lathers the soap between his hands, spreading the suds over Achilles’ broad shoulders and back. Achilles’ eyes roll back into his head, a soft moan spilling over his slightly parted lips. He’d forgotten how amazingly _strong_ Patroclus’ hands were. Perhaps, if he could actually make it home in time to have date night with Pat, he could actually have one of Patroclus’ infamous massages.

Okay… maybe it’s best if he doesn’t go back down that path tonight.

Patroclus lathers up a bit more soap, before returning to drag his hands down Achilles’ front. Neither man comments on the fact that the bathwater is _rapidly_ discoloring (though heat _does_ rise in Achilles’ cheeks at the reminder that it’s been far too long since he’s taken proper care of his personal hygiene). Patroclus scrubs him down, heat blooming beneath his fingers until Achilles’ pale skin is damn-near _red_ —it doesn’t hurt; in fact, it’s rather _pleasant_. Then, he rinses him off (which… he isn’t sure how sanitary that is, to rinse him off with the very same water they’d been sitting in for the last half-hour—in fact, the whole concept of the ‘bath’ is rather unsanitary). But he cannot deny that he feels better, just being able to smell the scent of cedarwood that always clings to Patroclus’ skin…

“Oh, that reminds me.” He leans his head back against Patroclus’ shoulder as the older man washes the last of the soap off of his body, “When I spoke with Nyx earlier, she mentioned that you’d commissioned a painting from her.”

“I did.” Patroclus agrees. When he doesn’t say anything else, he wonders if the commission had been meant as a surprise. Perhaps he shouldn’t have brought it up? “I… perhaps it would be better if we spoke about it at a different time? Everything’s just calmed down…”

Achilles raises a brow, “What could be so upsetting about a painting?”

“It’s not the… painting itself that would be upsetting.” Patroclus says, “It’s a painting of the family. There, uh… Well, we don’t have any pictures of the whole family together, so I had to ask her to do a little work to create a compilation with all of us in it.”

The corners of Achilles’ mouth twist down into a frown, “I know that I… well, I haven’t been the most photogenic, lately. Or… willing to have my picture taken, either.”

“I understand. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Achilles.” Patroclus starts to work some shampoo into his hair, his short, blunt nails carving their way along the smaller man’s scalp. “I actually found a very nice photograph of you—it was taken in the hospital,” Achilles tenses, “right after Amaltheia was born,” and relaxes again.

“Then… what’s so upsetting about the portrait?” Achilles is visibly confused.

“It’s more… _who_ the portrait is for.” Patroclus begins to wash out the shampoo, keeping at it until the blond locks have returned to their once near-radiant luster. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter, in an effort to keep the mood light. I want to keep you _nice_ and _relaxed_ …”

The bath concluded, Patroclus climbs out of the water first, taking one of the fluffy white towels off of the heated towel rack next to their sink. He dries himself off (rather haphazardly, as he’s far more concerned with getting Achilles out of the rapidly cooling water before it starts to exacerbate the ache in his heel and leg again). As he watches his husband prepare, he cannot help but notice that he is erect—his thick, dark cock curved up against his flat, firm belly. He’s making a valiant effort to ignore it, but…

Well, Achilles wishes that he didn’t _have_ to.

There’s a faint stirring between his legs, but he knows full-well that that will be the extent of it. They’d tried, a couple of times, after Achilles had first returned from his last tour. Once the pain was under control, Achilles had attempted to use sex as a means of denying the new reality he’d been plunged into… and then the mortification of being unable to get it up had killed the vibe for _months_ afterward. Patroclus had tried to tell him that it was perfectly natural for anti-depressants to affect his ability to… _perform_ (which, in effect, only served to make him more upset about the whole situation—he would blame himself forever for being unable to keep his promise to Patroclus to come back home in one piece, and now… now he couldn’t even satisfy his husband?)

They haven’t tried anything since—though it’s certainly not due to Patroclus’ lack of interest. He never pushes the matter, but Achilles isn’t daft—he knows why Patroclus takes the extended, _indulgent_ showers that he does. He knows that Patroclus has a healthy sex drive, and he deserves to have a partner that can indulge it. He also knows that Patroclus has recommended he speak to Megaera (an acupuncturist, whose kinda-sorta dating Hypnos (it’s complicated—though, what isn’t, at this point?), and who _used_ to date Zagreus, before… all of _that_ happened) about… _alternative_ ways to boost his sex drive. He keeps putting it off because, well… if he gives voice to it, then that makes it real, right?

Not that… _all_ of this isn’t already far too real for his liking.

He lets Patroclus help him out of the tub and bundle him up in the nice, warm towel. “There… Don’t you feel so much better, now?” Under the harsh bathroom lighting, he can see how Patroclus’ eyes had swollen when he cried… and he realizes that he doesn’t really feel all that much better at all.

“I… I do, yeah.” He forces a smile. “Can we, um… Can we cuddle? I would like for us to cuddle.”

“Sure, we can. Of course we can.” His eyes flit down toward his straining cock. Achilles is almost entirely certain that he was not meant to see that. “I, um… Let me just get you situated, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

He gets Achilles situated on the bed, before heading back into the bathroom under the guise of hanging the towel back up on the rack. When he returns some fifteen minutes later, both are more than willing to pretend that that’s exactly what he did. 


	7. Love is Patient, Love is Confusing

Achilles is thankful that the next morning is more or less uneventful.

After Patroclus had come back to bed, he’d slept for about three hours before being struck with the sudden, unrelenting _need_ to be up and about. So, he’d checked in on Amaltheia, tucked Pyrrhus back into bed, and went out to the car to retrieve the memberships that he hadn’t had a chance to register the night before. He knew that he was going to regret not making _some_ kind of effort to fall back asleep when he crashed later in the day, but he knew Zagreus wouldn’t question it if he disappeared down into the office/utility closet for an hour or so to catch up on some much-needed rest. Besides, if he were able to catch up on these registrations _now_ , there would be one less thing for him to catch up on when he eventually checked-in.

Patroclus doesn’t sleep for long, either. By the time four-thirty rolls around, he is dragging himself into the kitchen, helping himself to the coffee that Achilles has been downing like water for the last hour and forty-five minutes. He looks positively dashing in a pair of dark blue scrub bottoms and an off-white tank-top (he thinks that the shirt may have been white, once upon a time, but when you have two kids under the age of five, _nothing_ stays white for long). He’s wearing two different colored socks, and his hair is sticking up at all sorts of fascinating angles—Achilles would take a picture, if he didn’t feel mostly responsible for Patroclus looking like he’s dead on his feet. Once his cup is full, he makes his way over to the couch to peer at what Achilles is doing—

“Are you actually doing work? _Now_?” He sounds surprised. Achilles can’t really blame him: he’s never been a morning person. He would stay in bed until one o’clock in the afternoon, if left to his own devices… maybe longer.

“I am.” He inclines his head toward the stack of registrations that he’s already finished processing, “I… had a little bit of trouble falling back asleep, so I thought that I would do what I could to finish up the work leftover from last night. It’ll make opening the gym this morning that much easier—”

Patroclus hums, “Well, I’m proud of you. Is there anything that I can do to help you out?” He asks.

“That’s sweet, but… I want you to focus on yourself, alright? You have a long day ahead of you at the hospital, and you couldn’t have gotten much sleep because of—” He cuts himself off before he can assign himself the blame for Patroclus not getting the necessary sleep. “I made that blueberry coffee that you like.”

“I know.” Patroclus takes an appreciative sip, “I don’t understand why the coffee that you make always tastes so much better…” He doesn’t understand it either. He can’t cook worth a damn, but Patroclus is always praising it like it’s the greatest thing ever (does making coffee even constitute cooking?—he doesn’t know anymore).

Instead, he manages a sort of half-smile, meeting Patroclus’ dark brown eyes for the first time since the older man had stumbled out of the bedroom. “Thank you… for last night, and… well, for everything.”

And Patroclus _melts_ , “You don’t have anything that you need to thank me for, darling. I just did what I could to help… that’s all that any of us can do, right?” He leans in to press a kiss to Achilles’ forehead.

They fall into a comfortable silence. Patroclus checks in on Amaltheia, before putting on the rest of his scrubs. It turns out that Pyrrhus had been playing with his sneakers the night before, since there’s one in the sun room by the door to their garage, and one in the main bathroom, of all places. (Pyrrhus likes to play doctor—Patroclus had bought him his own junior doctor’s kit last Christmas, and his own itty-bitty pair of scrubs, and… well, he entertained the fact that Pyrrhus would make off with his sneakers to complete the look). He says that he wants to be a doctor when he grows up; or, at least, that’s the latest thing that he’s decided that he wants to be. Last year, he’d wanted to be an astronaut. The year before that, he’d wanted to be a professional track star.

Achilles sucks in a deep breath, “I’m going to try, really hard, to make it home early tonight.” He knows that a similar promise had gotten him into trouble the night before, but this time… he really thinks it’s possible. And after their conversation last night… he thinks that they really ought to start spending more time together.

“If you can, then that’s wonderful.” Patroclus concedes, “If you can’t, I won’t hold it against you. Trust me, I know that stuff comes up sometimes. And you have to look out for Zagreus, right?”

Achilles raises a brow, “I mean, he and Thanatos seemed rather… _chummy_ last night, before they left. I find it really hard to imagine that anything _too_ drastic happened between then and now—”

“Still,” his husband shrugs, “all I ask is that you do what you can, alright?”

Achilles sighs, “Alright.”

Patroclus reaches for one of the registration forms, “Do you always have this many registrations to close out at the end of the night? That’s kind of amazing.” Achilles supposes that his surprise is well-warranted. He doesn’t really talk about the gym with Patroclus; he’s far more concerned with learning what Patroclus does on a daily basis.

“I think part of it is Zagreus.” He says, “We’ve had a surprising number of young ladies—and quite a few men—come through ever since I hired him. It’s good, and… and a bit overwhelming.”

“He’s good for business.” Patroclus says.

Achilles nods, “He’s nice to have around. It’d be even nicer if he knew how to use a washing machine.”

He wishes that there were more that he could do for Zagreus, but he’s in an incredibly precarious position, what with Hades being his landlord. He likes to think that there is nothing that Hades could do to retaliate against him, knowing that he has a legally binding contract that guarantees him that space for another three and a half years. But if there’s one thing that he’s learned, there’s _always_ a loophole—and while they wouldn’t exactly be hurting for money if he were to lose his job, he honestly doesn’t know what he would do with himself if he were to lose his only reason to leave the house, day in and day out. So right now, all he can do is tell Zagreus to toss the wash back in for a second cycle, or to empty the vacuum bag _before_ vacuuming to actually make the vacuum function…

Patroclus runs his fingers through Achilles’ hair, brushing it out from in front of his face. “You know what, Achilles? You’re a good man.” And those words… they warm his heart like nothing else.

* * *

Achilles isn’t sure how they’re able to do it, but the last of the work from the closing checklist—and the bulk of the work from the opening checklist—is finished before the gym opens. It’s impressive, considering that Zagreus is late for work. And not just a couple of minutes late, either. The kind of late where he’s wondering if he needs to check to make sure that there hasn’t been some kind of accident. Does the lad walk to work? That _is_ considerably less dangerous than walking _home_ from work, but still. He’ll have to look over the business records later, to see if he can crunch some numbers in order to give Zagreus a bit of a raise. He knows that he hasn’t really been working at the gym long enough to have _earned_ a raise, but fuck… it’s not like Achilles needs the money.

When Zagreus _does_ show up, it’s clear that his mind is elsewhere. He’d done a rather sorry job of trying to conceal a blood-red hickey at the base of his neck—and Achilles _would_ be curious about that, if it weren’t for the fact that the lad looked like he wanted to break down into tears at even the slightest provocation. He’s worried that something’d happened between him and Thanatos (he doesn’t think that Thanatos is the type to break the lad’s heart, but if he _did_ , Achilles would have to kick his ass).

He’s in the midst of reviewing the ledger from that month when he decides to broach the topic.

Achilles sinks his teeth into the soft, malleable rubber of the eraser on his mechanical pencil. His eyes flicker back and forth as he watches Zagreus work a tread into the concrete floor, “What’s the matter, lad?” Zagreus skids to an abrupt halt, “Come now, I’m sure you’ll feel better once you have it off your chest. Besides… _this_ is making me dizzy.”

“S-Sorry.” Zagreus lowers his eyes toward the small stack of towels he’d been trying to replenish for the last ten minutes, “I… It’s Thanatos.” Heat rises in his cheeks when he says the other man’s name, “I think that I might’ve messed things up with him. Badly. We, um… well, things _progressed_ between us last night.”

Achilles raises a brow, “They… _progressed_?” He’s about ninety-five percent sure he knows what it is that Zagreus is trying to tell him, but he wants to be certain he knows what he’s talking about before giving any sort of advice.

“W-We…” Zagreus’ grip tightens on the blankets, causing wrinkles to form in the soft, fluffy white material. “W-We had _sex_. And I… I _thought_ that he was really into it. He _said_ that he was, anyway. But this morning, he was gone before I’d woken up, and his side of the bed was cold, so he must’ve been gone awhile—”

“Okay, first off—I’m gonna need you to take a deep breath, kid.” He says. “I saw the way he looked at you last night, Zagreus. He _genuinely_ cares about you.” And then, “I’m sure that this is all just a big misunderstanding.”

“T-Then… why did he just _leave_?” The poor lad looks to be just a second or two away from breaking down into tears.

“I mean, I can’t speak for Thanatos, but could it be possible that he just had to leave early for work?” He doesn’t know much about hospice, but he reasons that, just like any other medical field, it requires one to keep odd hours.

“He usually _tells_ me if he’s going to be working odd hours, though.” Zagreus is absolutely despondent. Achilles wishes there’s something he could do to quell the boy’s anxiety, “I just… I don’t want him to be mad at me. He spent so long being mad at me, and I… I know that I deserved it. But…”

As it turns out, when Zagreus had decided to ‘run away’ (he’s still not sure why it’s considering ‘running away’ when Zagreus was well over the age of eighteen at the time, and therefore _legally_ allowed to do whatever the hell he wanted), he’d conveniently neglected to tell Thanatos that he was leaving—and, at the time, had had no intention of coming back. Thanatos had been heartbroken, and had ghosted Zagreus for almost three months (while it’s true that Zagreus had been on the west coast for just about half of that time, _apparently_ , after his mother had kicked him to the curb, he’d tried to reach out to Thanatos, only to find that the other boy had changed his phone number—and when he’d called Hypnos to make sure that everything was alright—

Well, Hypnos had really torn him a new one. He was surprised, considering that the Hypnos _he_ knew was hard pressed to do much more than sleep eighteen hours a day (it was official—Hypnos was a cat)). When he’d come back to the east coast, Thanatos had avoided him—religiously. It wasn’t until Hades had officially kicked him out that Thanatos started to come around—and Zagreus was half-convinced that that was only because he was too nice of a person to let Zagreus sleep on the streets. And then they’d started… _talking_. And once they’d started _talking_ , Zagreus had realized that Thanatos had been harboring feelings for him for _several years_ and he started to realize that.. well, he might feel the same. And that’d made him panic.

Zagreus had only had one serious relationship before… whatever it is that he has with Thanatos, now. And it had ended _very_ badly. They’re friends now, but it’d taken quite awhile for him to worm his way back into her good graces (in many ways, it’d been more difficult than making amends with Thanatos—he likes to think that Thanatos was just looking for a valid reason to forgive him (but then, that might just be wishful thinking). And he just… he’s so worried about messing things up, because he can’t go back to having Thanatos ignore him.

Especially not now that they’re living under the same roof. If he’s even still welcome in Thanatos’ apartment, after everything. What is he going to do, if he can’t stay with Thanatos anymore? Even though Achilles offered to let him stay with him—to prevent him from spending the night in the gym—he couldn’t take advantage of his goodwill.

Achilles decides that he ought to intervene before the lad works himself into a proper snit.

“Okay, so…” he tries to interject, but Zagreus keeps speaking over him. So, he clears his throat, _loudly_ , and stares pointedly at the younger man until he stutters to a stop. “Haven’t things been better between you and Thanatos since you came back?” A nod. “You’ve been communicating more—”

“Well… _our_ version of communicating.” Zagreus sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, “It… mainly consists of _me_ talking, and Thanatos making vague sounds of approval and disapproval at appropriate intervals…”

Achilles nods, “But if that’s Thanatos’ way of communicating, then… isn’t that better than being ignored entirely?” Zagreus twitches, then nods. It would seem that he _really_ doesn’t like to think on the time that he and Than weren’t talking. “So, short of you doing something of that caliber _again_ —”

“I wouldn’t! I mean, there’s no reason to try anymore, considering that my father’s kicked me our and my mother doesn’t want me—” and… he doesn’t think that he’s ever hated Hades more.

He’s honestly not too thrilled with Persephone right now, either.

“But what if…” he takes a deep breath, “God, this is really embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than talking to your boss about your sex life?” It’s almost amusing, that the kid chooses _now_ to be embarrassed about how much personal information he’s divulging. “Don’t tell me that you’re worried he ran off because you performed badly, or something like that?”

“I… well, maybe? I think I… well, I think that _he_ might’ve been a virgin. And I… I probably should’ve done… you know, _more_ , for his first time.” Zagreus’ bottom lip has now started to bleed where he’s worrying it, “Though, now that I think about it, I think he’d be even more ticked off if I made a big deal out of it—”

“Remember to _breathe_ , Zagreus. It won’t help anything if you start hyperventilating—”

“I… may have also told him that I loved him.”

Achilles proceeds to choke on the air, “You… wait, you _what_?”

Hadn’t the lad just told him… what, two and a half days ago, that he didn’t know _how_ he felt about Thanatos? He had said that he _felt_ for him, but he wasn’t quite sure how to _classify_ that feeling. Now, he’s blurting out that he loves the other man after what is beginning to sound less like the romantic joining of two bodies and more like a… well, he’s not quite sure _how_ to describe it. If Thanatos _is_ mad at him—and that’s a _big_ ‘if’, because Achilles is still far from convinced as to whether or not Thanatos is actually upset—then it’s probably a result of not believing that Zagreus actually cares for him in the way that he claims. If he and Patroclus had never had a serious talk about feelings, he’d be skeptical too if Pat came out of the gates with the ‘l’ word.

He doesn’t want to tell that to Zagreus, though, because he knows that it’ll only serve to freak the younger man out more. He’d advise him to talk it out with Thanatos, but if his suspicions are correct and he’s working an extended shift at the home, then he doubts Thanatos will have the energy to dedicate to assuaging Zagreus’ fears. The man looks like the sort who gets stressed just by _thinking_ about how stressed he is. There’s a chance that he might make the situation _worse_ —unintentionally, of course—by letting that stress speak for him.

And the _last_ thing that he wants is for Zagreus to make an impulsive decision and ruins a good thing (or to put Thanatos in a position where he talks out of his ass—and, by extension, ruins a good thing). Difficult though it may be, he thinks that the best thing for all parties involved would be to take a breather—

He’s not going to insult Zagreus and ask him if he meant it. If he _said_ it, then he _meant_ it…

Even if he’d only meant it in that moment.

“Do you need a ride home, then?” If Thanatos is pulling a double-shift, then odds are he won’t be able to swing by after his shift at the home (even if he’s trying to act like he didn’t go out of his way just to make sure that he would make it back to the apartment safely).

“Oh, I… I couldn’t ask you to do that. I… If I really need a ride, then I can call my cousin Hermes. He might have fourteen outstanding speeding tickets, and he might’ve totaled his last car doing… I don’t even know what. But if he brings one of Charon’s cars, he probably won’t cause any trouble…”

“I feel like I should probably be worried…” He really doesn’t want to think that Zagreus might be in _more_ danger driving home with his cousin than he might be if he were to _walk home_.

“I…” Zagreus tries to look confident… and deflates, almost immediately. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little worried too.”

“Well…” Achilles doesn’t really know what else to say. He’s done all that he can do—the rest is up to him. “You have plenty of time to think about it, alright? You don’t have to decide right now.”

* * *

Thanatos doesn’t contact Zagreus for the rest of the day. It’s not that Achilles wasn’t expecting it—but it _really_ upsets Zagreus. Achilles has half a mind to send him home early, _again_ , but he really can’t afford to do it. His heel is feeling better today, but he knows that, if he pushes it, he’ll be in too much pain to risk driving.

Hermes pulls up _well_ before the gym closes. He has a membership, though he rarely finds time to actually come in for a full-fledged workout. It seems like he’s taking advantage of the fact that he’s taking Zagreus home with him to squeeze in a quick run on the treadmill. But first… he stops by the front desk to purchase a bottle of ice-cold vitamin water with his fiance’s American Express black card. (For all that Charon hangs around his mother’s studio—he commissions a number of paintings from her to hang around his office downtown—Achilles has only crossed paths with him once or twice, and he doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen Charon and Hermes together. Nevertheless, it’s clear that they love each other— _a lot_ ).

(And that’s not just because you could give a man a black eye with that tremendous purple diamond on his finger).

“Hiya, Mr. Pelides! Long time no see.” Hermes flashes him a bright, toothy smile, “Got a text from the ol’ brother-in-law, sayin’ that a certain little birdie needed a ride back to the apartment tonight.” Achilles blinks. Hadn’t Zagreus said that he was going to call Hermes if he needed a ride home?

He decides to test the waters, just a little, “Thanatos asked you to come pick up Zagreus?”

Hermes nods, “That he did, boss. Said that he’d be workin’ a double shift at the nursing home, and wouldn’t be back until _really_ late. Late enough that Zag’d probably be able to walk back and still make it home before him.” He cracks the seal on his water and takes a sip, “So he asked if I’d be willing to pick him up on my way to Charon’s.”

“Ah.” That makes _so_ much more sense, “Well, Zagreus still has about an hour and a half left in his shift. I’d let him leave early, but I really can’t afford to after yesterday—”

“That’s more than fine, boss. I have all the time in the world. Well, not really—but I’ve been meaning to hit the gym. I’ve skipped leg days too many days in a row now, and you _know_ that you can’t skip leg day.”

Hermes runs off to hit the treadmills just as Zagreus comes back upstairs with another round of towels. He greets him, just as he would any other customer, before realizing exactly who it is that he’s talking to and dropping the towels all over the ground. Achilles lets out a long-suffering sigh—it’s always the freaking towels. Well, at least he definitely knows that Zagreus didn’t reach out to Hermes (it’s a little heartbreaking to think that Zagreus had been waiting to hear from Thanatos _all day_ , but at least Thanatos had made preparations in advance to take care of him).

They chat for a little while. Achilles would be reminding Zagreus to _pick up the towels_ , if it weren’t for the fact that he’d clearly had a rough day already. Hermes is making everyone within six machines jealous with the way he’s dominating the treadmill—seriously, he didn’t think that it was possible to run on that steep of an incline, at that speed, and still hold a regular conversation. Achilles thinks that he would have had trouble with that, even when he was at his peak. (And yes, he knows that Hermes is a professional track star—he had two gold medals in the Olympics, in the 3000m steeplechase—if he couldn’t handle a quick jog on the treadmill, there would be something seriously wrong).

Then, Zagreus comes over to the front desk, a frown on his face. He… never picked up the towels, damn it.

“Do you… know what Hermes is doing here, Achilles, s—” He’s… admittedly a bit surprised that Zagreus didn’t bother asking Hermes that question. Or maybe Thanatos told him not to tell him that he’d sent him?

That… wouldn’t make any sense. But then, nothing really makes sense anymore.

“I believe that he’s here to take you home. After he gets his workout in, that is. I… I honestly don’t think that I’ve ever seen that treadmill move so fast. I’m a little worried that he might break it—”

“He… _really_ is fast, isn’t he?” Zagreus remarks, “When we were younger, he invited me on one of his morning jogs. He’d made it all the way around the block before I’d even finished stretching.” He takes a deep breath, “So, you’re saying that you didn’t call him, then?”

Achilles shakes his head, “No, I didn’t. But I _would_ recommend that you get your closing tasks done quickly, to make sure that you don’t keep him waiting. And then we can both head out early.”

“Really?” Zagreus seems more excited about the fact that Achilles will be leaving early than he himself, but still. “I’ll get started right now! There’s a… surprising number of towels that need to be washed today…”


	8. The 'H' Word

Achilles, admittedly, loses track of time after that. But somewhere between thirty and forty-five minutes later, Hermes is wandering out of the showers, in a plain black t-shirt, which reads: ‘Sorry Ladies, This Guy is Taken (Yes, His Fiancé Bought Him This Shirt), and bright red basketball shorts. Achilles is almost certain that Hermes’ fiancé did _nit_ buy him that shirt—it’s much too flashy for Charon’s tastes. His dark brown eyes flicker over to the desk where Achilles is seated, only to light up as if he’d just remembered something _incredibly_ important.

Hermes closes the distance between them in a flash.

“Oh, by the way—” Hermes fishes an ornate, cream-colored envelope from his messenger bag. “I thought that I’d save some time and deliver a bunch of the invitations by hand. It’ll save some money, too—though with how much money I’ve already spent arranging the wedding, I doubt Charon would object to the cost of postage.”

Achilles blinks, not quite sure what to make of the invitation at first (in part because Charon and Hermes have been engaged _forever_ , and have been continuously postponing the actual wedding date because Hermes has been training and traveling and competing). He’s on good terms with Hermes—on the rare occasions that he actually makes use of his gym membership, he is always more than polite, and he’d been kind enough to pay for the damage he’d done to the gym after that… _accident_ (well, Charon paid for it, technically, but it was paid for nonetheless—so no hard feelings)—but he hadn’t thought that they were on _wedding invitation_ terms. Not that he’s _opposed_. And if Hermes is having his brother, Dionysus, plan the affair, then—

“Oh, and don’t worry about finding a babysitter, either.” Hermes says, “Pan and Evander will be there, and they’re always looking to make new little friends. I’m trying to convince ‘dite to bring Eros, too, but we’ll see. I want _all_ the youngsters running amuck—see how high we can raise Charon’s blood pressure.”

That’s true love right there. “How are the kids, anyhow?” He opens the invitation, marveling at the ornate golden lettering. He doesn’t think that they have any sorts of conflicts with the date—

“They’re great! Or… well, I _think_ that they are. I’ve been keeping in touch with them through Zoom while I’ve been travelling. They’ve gotten _so big_ …” He smiles brightly, “I’ll be seeing them for the first time in like… _six months_ tonight, and I’m _stoked_.”

“That’s amazing.” He’d been away from Pyrrhus for longer than that during his last two tours, and saying goodbye to that sweet little face had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. And Amaltheia had been born _during_ his last tour, so…”Little Pan is just about the same age as Pyrrhus, right?”

“Yes, sir! He’ll be turning six next week.” He leans in over the surface of the disk to whisper conspiratorially, “Between you, me, and the floorboards, that was the only way I could convince my agent to let me have some time off.”

Achilles frowns, “That’s awful.”

“I know, right?” Hermes puffs out his cheeks, “I feel like I’m exploiting my kid’s birthday for a couple of days off of work. That’s… well, that’s really more of ‘dite’s domain.”

Hermes has a bit of a _complicated_ relationship with his sister-in-law, Aphrodite. Her… _affairs_ are some of the worst-kept secrets in the family (Achilles really isn’t one for gossip, but he also isn’t blind—there’s no way that Hephaestus cannot see the stark resemblance that Eros bears to their _other_ brother, Ares). On the one hand, he’s not at all thrilled with the way that Aphrodite takes advantage of his brother’s kindness, and tries to play the victim every time that he grows wise to her antics. On the other hand, Aphrodite had been the first one to step up when he and Charon had announced they were looking for a surrogate—and she’d carried _both_ of their kids for them. So… it’s a bit of a love-hate thing. But it’s an important step that he wants to invite her!

The only relative that _isn’t_ getting an invite, it would seem, is Charon’s little sister, Eris. Apparently, she’d caused a real at Thanatos’ college graduation party (a party which he had _vehemently_ denied wanting, _multiple times_ ). The police had to be called, charges were filed (then dropped)… it was a whole mess. And Hermes doesn’t want that kind of energy _corrupting_ his special day. He plans on tying the knot just the _once_ (after all, how often do you meet a catch like Charon?), so everything has to be _absolutely perfect_.

After all, who said that you had to be a _bride_ to be a _bridezilla_?

“Oh, there you are, Coz! I was just starting to get worried!” Hermes fishes another invite out of his bag and presses it into Zagreus’ unprepared hands. “I know that you’ll be at the wedding, right? And don’t worry about having an awkward conversation with stuffy Than about who is whose ‘plus one’. I’ve got his invite right here!”

Zagreus nearly drops the invite at the mention of Thanatos, “Oh, um… t-thank you, Hermes. That’s… err, very _sweet_ of you.” He looks like he’s not quite sure what to do with the invite.

Hermes wags his eyebrows suggestively, “I’mma give you a little bit of a _hint_ with that one, yeah? It’s going to take him forever and a day to work up the courage to ask you to go with him, even though you both have invitations—so you’d save yourself a whole _heap_ of time if you just asked him yourself.”

Zagreus blinks, “Oh, but… maybe it’s for the best that you have separate invitations for the two of us. I don’t know—”

The older man frowns, “Don’t tell me that he didn’t—oh my _god_ , he really didn’t, did he?” Tell Zagreus that he was pulling a double shift at the nursing home? No, he didn’t.

Hermes whips out his phone. “Um… what’re you doing?” Zagreus looks a little green around the gills as he watches Hermes’ nimble fingers fly across the electronic keyboard.

“Texting Ares, of course.” Ares works at the home alongside Thanatos, as a security guard. Prior to working at the home, he’d been a guard at the correctional facility—he’d been… err, _asked_ to leave that job, however, because he had difficulty getting along with his coworkers. Namely Athena.

“What? Why?” Zagreus is in full-on panic mode now.

“Why?” Hermes’ brows knit together, “Because _someone_ needs to talk some sense into that thick-headed tsundere. And Than likes Ares… sort of. He’ll at least _pretend_ to listen to him whilst ignoring everything he has to say.”

Did Thanatos neglect to tell _Hermes_ that he’d just… _disappeared_ that morning, without a trace? That’s certainly what it sounded like. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. If he knows Thanatos (and he doesn’t—at least, not that well—but from what he’s seen and heard over the last day or so, he thinks that they might rather alike), he’d probably become overwhelmed trying to process Zagreus’ sudden declaration of _feelings_ and had plunged himself headlong into his work because the only time that the world makes sense is when it is viewed through the hazy veneer of _stress_. Thanatos seems like the type who gets stressed over being stressed, and who gets stressed over _not_ being stressed, and—

He thinks that Zagreus will be good for him, if he can let Zagreus in and accept what it is that Zagreus is offering him. Which is rich coming from him, considering that he _still_ has trouble accepting the love that _Patroclus_ is offering him. He doesn’t know why Patroclus _still_ wants to be with him, after everything, when someone like Theseus could offer him—holy shit, did he actually almost go so far as to say that Patroclus would be better off with Theseus? Oof, that’s _really_ bad…

Zagreus has started chasing Hermes around in circles in front of the front desk, trying to snatch the phone out of the older man’s hands. It’s no use, of course. The text has already been sent. Not to mention the fact that Zagreus is most certainly _not_ built like a runner. Hermes could run circles around him in his _sleep_.

Both men skid to a halt when Hermes’ phone chirps with an incoming text message.

Hermes checks his phone, “Oh look—he’s already gotten back to me.” He reads over the message, before frowning, “Oh boy. Turns out Thanatos is having a bad night. One of the patients—not a hospice patient, but a patient that’s in the home as a step-down after a knee replacement—is giving him a hard time.”

Zagreus frowns, “A patient? Giving Than a hard time?” Achilles frowns. He hasn’t been on the receiving end of Than’s services himself, but from what Patroclus has said, he doesn’t understand why anyone would have reason to complain—let alone give him a ‘hard time’, as Hermes said.

“Yeah…” Hermes bites down on his bottom lip. It looks like there’s something he’s not saying, but Achilles doesn’t press the matter, “You know what? We’re gonna make a little pit stop on the way back to Than’s place—”

_That_ seems to awaken something in Zagreus, “You still haven’t told me who asked you to come pick me up!”

“Coz…” Hermes shakes his head, looking _terribly_ disappointed. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, then I’m afraid there’s no helping you. Now—we have about,” he checks his watch, “forty-five minutes to get to the gyro for some comfort food. I’m gonna call ahead, to make sure that they have the food ready when we arrive—”

Hermes hooks an arm around Zagreus’ shoulders, guiding him toward the door, “B-But, wait! Hermes, I feel like there’s something that you’re not telling me. Something _important_.”

Hermes doesn’t answer him, “So, we can expect to see you and yours at the wedding, then, Mr. Pelides?”

Achilles inclines his head, “I’ll tell Patroclus about it tonight.”

They run off, then. Hermes is on the phone with the only gyro in town, putting in an order for take-out, and Zagreus is trying to figure out what the hell is going on, without being rude and interrupting the other man while he’s on the phone. He can hear the engine of Charon’s Ferrari roar to life, can hear the scrape of the tires against the asphalt as he tears out of the strip mall parking lot at a most inadvisable speed… Really, it’s any wonder how he’s only accumulated _fourteen_ speeding tickets. He’s not entirely convinced that Zagreus shouldn’t have just let _him_ drive him home. But… if something really _did_ happen with Thanatos (and really, why would Ares have reason to lie about that?), it’ll be good to have Hermes there…

He looks at the clock, “God… it really doesn’t feel like seven o’clock, does it?” At least he’ll be able to keep his promise to Patroclus to come home early…

* * *

Pyrrhus is less than thrilled to see Achilles home early.

Much as he’d like to think that Pyrrhus would calm down if he allowed enough time to go by, it would appear that that is not the case. The boy is _glaring_ at him from across the table, while making a point of speaking to everyone _except_ him. He even has a ten-minute, one-sided conversation with _Amaltheia_ —

“So…” Achilles tries to interject. Patroclus offers him an encouraging smile. “What did you and Briseis get up to today, little buddy?” He tries. If looks could kill…

Briseis shakes her head, trying to deter him from asking the question—but it’s too late. The little boy frowns, “I repainted the birdhouse that I made.” That’s… oh. He remembers how excited Pyrrhus had been to find the prettiest shade of blue paint to use, because Achilles deserved nothing but the best.

Briseis interjects with a hurried, “It’s a _very_ pretty blue-green color, now. I’m sure that you’ll love it, once you have the chance to see it—”

“It’s not _for_ him.” Pyrrhus huffs. His face is as red as a tomato. “It’s for _Papa_ , now. ‘Cause Papa actually keeps his promises, and comes home when he’s supposed to, and… and…”

Patroclus frowns, “Pyrrhus, we talked about that. It wasn’t your Daddy’s fault—”

“No!” The little boy _snaps_ , his voice so loud that it causes Amaltheia to let out a distressed little wail. “If Daddy doesn’t wanna come home and be with us, then he should just _say_ so! Instead of just… just _lying_. Daddy is a big, fat _liar_!” Achilles’ eyes widen. He doesn’t think he’s _ever_ heard Pyrrhus talk to him like this before—

“Pyrrhus!” Patroclus doesn’t quite _yell_ , but his tone is _sharp_ , and brokers no room for argument, “You do _not_ talk to your father like that. Apologize, _now_.”

“If you didn’t want to be with us, why did you even bother coming back?!”

“Pyrrhus!” Now, Patroclus is yelling. Achilles can do little more than stare, wide-eyed.

Pyrrhus slams his silverware down hard enough to make the entire table _shake_ , “I hate you!”

Well, he knew that it was coming, but that certainly didn’t make it any easier to stomach it. Achilles sucks in a deep breath, meeting Pyrrhus’ tear-filled eyes, so like his own… His chest _aches_ , and he thinks that, somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten how to breathe. Patroclus’ anger is written plain upon his face—Achilles would admire his ability to keep his less-favorable emotions under wraps, if he couldn’t already feel himself spiraling. After he’d been shot, he’d wanted nothing more than to return home and be with his family. Even if the wound wasn’t lethal, it had certainly changed his entire perspective on life. But… Maybe it would have been better if he’d left, like he’d planned to do after seeing how brokenhearted Patroclus was over his injury…

He… You didn’t hear that from him. You _also_ didn’t hear that he still has two, fully-packed suitcases tucked away in the bottom corner of the closet, ready to go at a moment’s notice. In the months since the accident, he’d thought about leaving on several occasions—not for himself, but to spare Patroclus, and his family, the burden of having to take care of him. He’s only thirty-six years old. He shouldn’t need anyone to _take care_ of him. Is it getting unbearably hot in here, or is it just him? He… _really_ needs to start remembering how to breathe.

Any time now…

He can see Briseis standing in front of him, but she’s… _blurry_ around the edges. He cannot tell if that’s due to the fact that he’s not breathing properly, or that he’s tearing up from the… the… Is he having a panic attack? He thinks that Briseis is trying to talk to him, but he can’t quite make out what it is that she’s trying to say. It’s not until Patroclus pulls his chair out from where it is tucked underneath the table and kneels down in-between his legs, that the world slowly, but surely starts to come into focus. Patroclus takes one of his hands and presses it against Achilles’ chest, feeling the frantic _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart beneath his nimble fingers—with his other hand, he takes Achilles’ and presses it against his own chest.

“Can you hear me, darling?” Achilles nods. Then, he licks his lips, and manages to muster a soft ‘yes’. “Okay. Okay, that’s good.” Then, “You know the drill, darling. Tell me five things that you can see—and make sure that you take a nice, deep breath for me before each one.”

Achilles takes a deep breath in, “I-I see… _you_ …” and out.

He sinks his fingers into the fabric Patroclus’ t-shirt, focusing on the feel of the feather-soft fabric beneath the calloused pads of his fingers. He does his best to focus in on the feel of the fabric spilling through his fingers as he thinks of what else he can see. There’s… the table, still fixed with the remnants of dinner… Briseis, who is just coming back from putting Amaltheia down in the other room (when had she left?—he didn’t remember her leaving)… that makes three… what else? What else? He takes another deep breath… he sees the… the… hand-embroidered towels that Briseis had made them as a house-warming present, and… and the television in the living room, which is still playing _The Fairly Odd Parents_.

“Keep breathing for me, darling.” Patroclus reminds him. It takes him a moment, but he sucks in a deep, somewhat shaky breath. “Tell me four things that you can hear. Come on—you’re doing so good, darling.”

“Things I can… hear?” He takes another deep breath, “The… rain?” When had it started raining? He feels Patroclus’ thumb sweep up under his eye, wiping away… _moisture_? “Um… the dishwasher?” Briseis is clearing the table, now. “Briseis’ heels… and… oh god, was that me?”

Patroclus chuckles a little, “You _are_ a little congested, love.” He hands him a tissue. He blows his nose, and feels a little better—though now he can feel a headache brewing. “There. That’s it. Briseis, can I have a glass of water?” A second later, he’s pressing a glass of ice water into Achilles’ hand. “Take a sip. Just the one—”

Achilles takes a small sip, nice and slow—if he drinks any faster, he’ll make himself sick. “J-Just the one.”

“Good. You’re being so, so good for me, Achilles, love.” He wraps his hands around Achilles’, stabilizing them. “What can you smell? C’mon, just three things.”

“I can smell dinner… and y-your cologne… and… fucking—when was the last time that we changed the cat litter?”

And then, “Two things that you can feel.” Patroclus’ lips spread into a comforting smile, “We’re so close.”

“Your hands… they’re really warm.” Achilles manages an almost smile, “And your shirt… It’s been through the wash so many times, it’s so soft…”

“And what can you taste?”

“I… the water.” He breathes. It feels like a ten-pound weight has been lifted off of his chest. He doesn’t feel perfect, but he definitely feels better than he did. “Can I… I think I can handle another sip of water.”

“Definitely.” Patroclus helps guide the cup to his lips, encouraging him to take another sip. “You feeling a little bit better now, love?” Achilles gives a weak nods, “I have to admit, you scared me a little bit there. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen you stop breathing like that before…”

Patroclus is clearly beside himself. He’d told Achilles that the kid would probably say some things that he didn’t mean, but he certainly didn’t expect him to say all that he had. He opens his mouth several times, clearly wanting to say _something_ , but uncertain of how to put that _something_ into words. Achilles can’t blame him—all of this was uncharted territory (Pyrrhus had never said anything of the sort to Achilles—he absolutely _adored_ his father, and understood that Achilles hadn’t asked for any of this to happen ((well, he understood it on the basic level that a five-year-old child could understand such a complex issue)). Achilles might also still be crying, but he has absolutely no desire to check to know for certain. He just… really wants to go lay down.

“C’mon… let’s get you to bed, alright?” He doesn’t think that he’s ever been so happy to be whisked away into the bedroom.

* * *

Achilles buries his face in the crook of Patroclus’ shoulder, “So… Hermes gave us an invite to his and Charon’s wedding. He said that we were welcome to bring the kids—that is, if Pyrrhus is talking to me again by that point.”

Patroclus presses a kiss to the crown of his head, “I’m sure that he’ll be talking to you again by tomorrow morning.” He says, “We had a little chat while you took your nap, and he feels absolutely horrible about what he said and how he acted. He would have apologized tonight, I think—but I told him that you needed your rest.”

Achilles looks away, “He… does have a point, you know. Maybe I… Maybe it would’ve been better if I hadn’t come back.” He can’t bring himself to look at Patroclus’ face, but he can _feel_ him tense.

“What?” Patroclus sounds like he might break down sobbing. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m saying…” Achilles’ sea-glass eyes focus in on where his wedding set _should_ have sat on his finger, “that I’m not good for you. That I’m not the man that you married, and I never will be…” _never again_. “You deserve someone that isn’t so ashamed of what they’ve become, they’d hide from their own family—”

“Achilles—” Patroclus’ voice sounds so broken, it shatters Achilles’ already fragile heart. But he needs to get this off of his chest—it’s been sitting there for far too long already.

“You deserve someone that doesn’t have a panic attack in the middle of dinner over something that _every_ kid says at least once in their life—” he chuckles blandly. He hates himself a little bit more every time that he opens his mouth, but he has to keep going. He has to—

“ _Achilles!”_ Patroclus _barks_ , and Achilles’ mouth snaps shut with an audible _click_. “ _First_ of all, where the hell do you get off trying to tell me what I do and don’t deserve?”

“I…” Achilles starts, then realizes he has no real answer to that question.

He doesn’t know how to explain that it’s no longer a matter of _deserving_. They used to fit together like Hermes and Charon, or Zagreus and Thanatos, but now… Even their _son_ can see how much he doesn’t belong in their little family (and he _knows_ , deep down, that that’s not what Pyrrhus meant—that he spoke from a place of pain without taking the time to consider what the potential impact of his words might be (have five-year-old’s developed the ability to empathize? Patroclus would probably know the answer to that question…)). If he could just convince Patroclus to see things from _his_ perspective, life would be so much easier. If Patroclus would just tell him that he wasn’t worth it, then he would know, definitively—

Patroclus slides him off of his shoulder, and he knows that it’s coming. He braces himself for impact, hoping that his husband renders the heaping dose of heartbreak swiftly and painlessly… and yet, there’s a part of him that also hopes that it’s painful. He _deserves_ for it to hurt. He’d broken his promise to Patroclus (Patroclus, who’d been devastated by his decision to enlist again, so certain that he wouldn’t make it home to see his second child—they’d never intended to be career soldiers; and in the bit of time since his last tour, he’d started up the gym, he’d made friends… he’d well and truly started his life (they called him a hero, but _none_ of this felt very heroic)). He’d never deserve to wear the other man’s ring again—

And then, Patroclus takes a fistful of Achilles’ white blond hair and pulls it _tight_. The younger man winces, but allows Patroclus to guide his head back so that they are making eye contact. They simply stare at one another for a moment, before Patroclus crashes their lips together in a _bruising_ kiss. And Achilles… he must be an _absolute mess_ , seeing as he hadn’t had a chance to brush his teeth before Patroclus had laid him down, and he could _feel_ the dried spittle around his mouth from the impromptu nap that he’d taken…

And yet… Patroclus kisses him, harsh and desperate, and in that abrasive touch, just for the briefest of moments… Achilles feels like the teenager who’d snuck Patroclus in through his bedroom windows on nights when his mother would have a bit too much wine at dinner and pass out face-first on her bed around eight in the evening…

He feels _light._ He feels _whole_. He feels _loved_.

“Achilles,” Patroclus pulls away, and in the darkness, Achilles can make out the faint sheen of blood upon his lips. Had he really kissed him _that_ hard? Ouch. “You’re not the same man that I married, no. I married an eighteen-year-old boy, and I loved him, fiercely.’

“And the thirty-six-year-old man lying in bed with me now? I love him, too. It’s true that… some things may be different. You have a few grays in your hair. Neither of us can drink. And we spend far too much money at the McDonald’s drive-thru trying to get Pyrrhus those stupid little Happy Meal toys.’

“But I wouldn’t change _this_ , right here, for anything. And I won’t sit here and abide _anyone_ talking shit about the man I love—even if it’s you. You’re my everything, Achilles. I wouldn’t be able to do _any_ of this without you. So, do me a favor and don’t act like you’re anything less than the most perfect person in the world for me, okay?’

Achilles stares at him, wide-eyed, as Patroclus presses a much more tender kiss to his swollen lips, “Now. Tell me more about this wedding, hmm.”


	9. Like Father, Like Son

Achilles wakes to the sensation of a tiny knee pressing into his bladder. _Ouch_.

He blinks his eyes open, unsure as to what time it is—but knowing that it is far too early for _anyone_ in the house to be awake, including Patroclus. He finds Pyrrhus kneeling on top of his stomach, the little boy clutching his stuffed ant toy, Antos, to his teary face. Their son is poking and prodding at Patroclus, doing everything short of whacking the older man in the face with Antos. He’s about to tell him that Patroclus needs his sleep, that _he’s_ awake and more than capable of handling whatever it is that’s upsetting him so much, when—

Patroclus cracks one eye open, “What’s the matter, little man? I’m pretty sure you, and all the other good little boys, should be sleeping right now.” He yawns, shifting a little so that he can rub at his eye.

“I-I…” Pyrrhus sniffles, rubbing his face with his stuffed toy. “Can I… s-sleep in your bed tonight?”

Patroclus is silent for a moment, before he lifts Pyrrhus up off of Achilles’ bladder (thank _god_ , that was really starting to hurt). “You know… your Daddy and I bought you a _really_ nice bed. A shiny red racecar bed, that _you_ picked out.” He reminds him, “Our bed is boring in comparison.”

Pyrrhus nods. That _is_ true. “B-But I…” his lower lip warbles as he considers, “I want _snuggles_.” He says.

“Shh… no more tears, alright?” Patroclus reaches up to brush the tears from Pyrrhus’ cheeks, “You can stay here tonight, but you need to be quiet. Daddy needs his rest—”

“Daddy…” Pyrrhus tucks himself in in-between Achilles and Patroclus’ bodies. There’s not a lot of room between them (had Achilles fallen asleep _on top_ of Patroclus?), but Pyrrhus makes do. He rests his head on Achilles’ chest, and thumps his stomach with Antos.

“Shh…” Patroclus shifts a little, to throw his arm over the two of them. “It’s time to sleep now, okay?”

And really, all of this would be _wonderful_ if Pyrrhus weren’t cuddled up on his injured leg. He’s not putting a ton of pressure on it, but it’s enough to make him… _moderately_ uncomfortable. The dull ache is enough to keep him wide awake, despite the fact that he’s reached that special level of exhaustion where he’s beginning to feel nauseous. He _really_ can’t afford to not get a couple more hours’ worth of shut-eye, after waking up at ass-crack o’clock in the morning yesterday. But he _also_ cannot move Pyrrhus. It’ll be another hour or so before the kid’s deep enough asleep that he can crawl out from underneath him without running the risk of waking him up, meaning that he’s stuck here, staring at the ceiling, contemplating all of his life choices…

Okay, that’s a bad idea. His head already hurts—if he were to start crying, that would only make it worse. Not to mention the fact that he’d run the risk of waking Patroclus up, _again_ —and if _anyone_ needs to get a decent night’s rest, it’s the man who is going to be spending some twenty-odd hours in the operating theatre performing a delicate operation that could mean the difference between life or death… Achilles closes his eyes and takes a deep, somewhat shaky breath. He doesn’t know how Patroclus handles all that pressure, day in and day out. Some days (err… _most_ days), he has trouble forcing himself out of _bed_ in the morning. And the greatest thing he’d ever done had left him handicapped for the rest of his life.

Suddenly, he feels a… _wetness_ seep into his tank top. Frowning, he looks down to see Pyrrhus chewing on the soft, cotton fabric, and soaking it through with drool. So, maybe that wasn’t the _greatest_ thing that he’d done after all.

* * *

When Achilles wakes _again_ , it is to the sound of his cell phone ringing.

Patroclus pokes his head into the bedroom, his toothbrush poking out from in-between his lips. “You’d better answer that, darling. Whoever it is has been trying to get ahold of you for almost an hour now.”

Achilles blinks his eyes open, “Has… my phone really been ringing for an hour?” And how had he slept through that absolutely horrid ringtone? It’s the same tone that he uses for the alarm for his meds, specifically selected because it’s virtually impossible to ignore. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He shrugs, “You looked like you needed your sleep.” And then, “And, to be honest, I didn’t expect them to keep calling. Usually, these middle of the night odd-calls are just… lonely telemarketers.” He wanders back into the bathroom and spits out the mouthful of toothpaste. “Do you even know whose calling?”

To be honest, Achilles doesn’t _really_ want to look. If it was Zagreus calling out, he would’ve left a message after Achilles failed to pick up the first time. And Briseis would’ve called Patroclus if it were something _that_ serious. Everyone else that he cared about lived under his roof, so…

But Patroclus _had_ asked.

He reaches for the phone, just as it turns over to voicemail. The screen lights up, showing thirteen missed calls from, “Zagreus? Why would he have called me so many times—”

Patroclus pops his head back into the bedroom, “Didn’t you mention that something had happened at the nursing home with Thanatos?” Achilles can feel his heart drop into his stomach. Could something have happened…?

“Shit.” He sits up so fast, his vision blurs for a second. “Shit, shit, shit—”

“Take a deep breath, darling. If there _is_ something wrong, then Zagreus is going to need you to keep a level head.” Achilles knows that he shouldn’t be ticked off, but he cannot help but wish that Patroclus had taken the repeated calls a bit more seriously. What if the lad had been sitting in the hospital all by himself?

He dials Zagreus’ number. The phone doesn’t even complete one full ring before Zagreus picks up; and the lad wastes no time, immediately launching into an explanation as to what’d happened once they’d arrived back at Thanatos’ apartment the night before. Apparently, Thanatos had been hurt more severely than Ares had intimated when he was on the phone with Hermes. He’d been complaining about some… _discomfort_ in his neck, but had taken some painkillers and attempted to sleep it off. He’d woken in the middle of the night unable to move his neck, or his right arm. Zagreus had called 911, and Thanatos had been whisked off to the hospital (where they’d lied about being engaged so that Zagreus could sit in the room, because Zagreus was _panicking_ ).

Apparently, the doctor said that Thanatos had two herniated discs in his neck. He’d stressed that the damage wasn’t as bad as it _could_ be—but that did little to assuage Zagreus’ fears. Thanatos would have to miss _at least_ a month of work, if not more. He’d have to attend physical therapy at least three times a week, and be put into traction in an effort to use his own weight to slide the disks back into place. The only _good_ thing about all of this is that Thanatos took the time to fill out an incident report before leaving work the night before.

He doesn’t understand how Thanatos is taking all of this so well. Achilles wants to point out that they probably have him pumped full of all sorts of drugs (especially if it’s an injury serious enough to keep him from being able to move his head…). He refuses to tell any of the doctors, or even Zagreus, exactly what’d happened to cause his injuries. In fact, he won’t say _anything_ about that night at all, save for the fact that he’d filled out all of the necessary paperwork and that he’d been doing his job when he’d been injured…

Ares was mad enough to spit nails. Hermes wasn’t doing much better. And Zagreus… he really wanted someone to come and sit with him, to help him to stay calm so that he could be strong for Thanatos. He knew that Achilles had to open the gym, and he was already asking a lot by asking him to take care of all of the associated duties by himself—

But he’s scared, and he doesn’t know who else to turn to, and—

“It’s okay, lad.” Achilles is agreeing to come down to the hospital before he even fully realizes what it is that he’s saying, “Don’t worry about the gym—we can afford to close for one day. I’ll be there in an hour or so, alright?”

 _That_ seems to calm the lad down, at least a little bit. _“Thank you, sir. Thank you so, so much. I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you for this—”_ Achilles wants to tell him that he doesn’t have anything to repay him for—this is what any halfway decent person would do, if they could—but he can’t get a word in edgewise.

“Zagreus. Zagreus, it’s okay—” Achilles starts to climb out of bed, putting a bit of pressure on his foot. It’s… not going to be a good pain day. He probably shouldn’t have waited so long to move Pyrrhus… “Thanatos is in good hands. There’s no better place for him to be right now—”

 _“I-I just… I wish there were s-something more that I could do for him, you know?”_ He sounds like he’s just a second or two away from breaking down into full-on sobs.

“You already did the best thing you could’ve done in this situation, lad. You brought him to the hospital.”

He doesn’t feel comfortable hanging up on Zagreus while he’s in this state. When Patroclus comes back from the bathroom, he tells him that he needs to call Briseis and see if she’s willing to come over a little early to watch the kids. He knows that the odds of her being awake at five o’clock in the morning are slim to none, but he also can’t justify bringing two small children to the hospital to sit for hours while they waited the results of the last of Thanatos’ tests. And if he and Thanatos are anything alike, he cannot imagine that the other man is all too keen on having more than a small handful of people see him at his most vulnerable—and it doesn’t get much more vulnerable than witnessing someone in traction. Achilles’ back gives a sympathetic twinge at the thought.

It takes a couple tries, but Patroclus is able to get ahold of Briseis, who promises that she’ll be over as soon as she can. Achilles dresses himself quickly (he really needs to invest in some new clothes—the fact that almost every article of clothing in his wardrobe could double as a pair of pajamas was kind of… well, _sad_ ), takes his morning pills (it’s a little early, but if he’s going to get an early start like this—and spend the entire day in the hospital, on those uncomfortable little chairs—then he needs to get a head start)—

“Hey, Pat?” An idea occurs to him, then. “How much do you know about herniated discs?”

Pat freezes, his hair brush caught on a tangle in his long, dark hair. “Like, herniated discs in a spinal cord? I mean, it’s not my area of expertise, but I know enough about it to diagnose it and treat it.” He says.

“Do you think you could talk to Zagreus about it? Thanatos was just diagnosed with two herniated discs in his neck, and Zagreus is really freaking out. I think that it might do him good to have someone explain the situation to him without all the technical terms and medical jargon.”

Pat was good at breaking complex ideas down into layman’s terms—he’d been the one to explain to Achilles the implications of his own diagnosis, after all. Patroclus nods, reaching for the phone, “I’ll do my best. Give me the phone while you finish getting yourself together, alright?”

“Thank you.” He turns his attention back to Zagreus, “Lad, I’m going to hand the phone over to Patroclus for a second, alright? He’s going to endeavor to explain what’s going on with Thanatos—”

_“O-Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly bother your husband with all of this, sir! It’s bad enough that I—”_

“Nonsense, lad. It’s not a bother—is it, Patroclus?”

“It’s no bother at all, kid.” Patroclus says, loud enough for Zagreus to be able to hear him on the other end of the line. He rakes the brush through his hair again, before reaching for the phone. “Zagreus? This is Pat—no, no, you don’t have to call me Dr. Opus… just Pat is fine. So, I heard that your bo— _friend_ has some herniated discs—”

* * *

Achilles knows that it’s going to be an… _interesting_ day when the woman at triage sees him limp through the automatic doors that lead into the ER waiting room and thinks that he’s there for emergency treatment. She cuts herself off a second too late when she catches sight of Patroclus making a cutting motion across his throat (Achilles doesn’t think that he was actually supposed to see that, seeing as Patroclus was standing behind him—at the very _corner_ of his vision). Achilles offers her a tight smile, before turning his attention to the waiting area.

Zagreus is sitting by himself in the far corner, his shaking hands wrapped around a Styrofoam coffee cup. He’s still wearing his pajamas (a plain white t-shirt bearing the smiling face of a large, patchwork mouse (he recognizes the mouse from some of the retro cartoons that Pyrrhus watches on Saturday mornings—it’s one of the main characters on a show comprised of a series of short, ten- to twelve-minute-long animated skits) and a pair of black and gray plaid pants, that seem to be just this side of too big). He’d taken the time to switch out his slippers for a pair of sneakers, at least. His dark hair is a mess underneath a red, orange, and yellow tie-dyed beanie… God, now he’s _really_ glad he took the time to put together a little bag of toiletries for the lad.

Reaching down, he slips the coffee cup from between Zagreus’ hands. Zagreus starts, his mismatched eyes flickering up to meet Achilles’ own, tired pair… The lad has clearly been crying. “Let me top you off there, kid. You look like you need it.” He shuffles over to the coffee pot and begins fixing Zagreus a fresh cup.

“You came…” Zagreus breaths, not quite believing. Achilles frowns—did he really think that he wouldn’t show? “I know that you said that you would, but…” He sucks in a deep breath, “Ares came by, a little while ago.”

Achilles frowns, “Is that a bad thing? I thought that you liked your cousin Ares.”

“I-I do… that’s…” he takes a deep, shaky breath, “Ares… h-he got hurt, too. Not nearly as bad as Than, b-but…” Achilles’ frown deepens. What the hell had _happened_ at that nursing home last night? “He bit off part of his tongue… and he’s missing two of his teeth—”

“Holy…” He’s so distracted that he almost pours coffee all over the little table, “Was he able to shed any light on what happened?” He has a feeling that that is part of why the lad is so upset.

Zagreus takes a deep breath, “One of the nurses was having trouble transferring a patient from his wheelchair to his bed. She asked Thanatos for help, only, for some reason, the patient got _really_ agitated around him. He was going to just let it go and find someone else to help, when—”

He’d fallen out of his wheelchair. It wouldn’t have been a bad fall, had it not been for the fact that he would have landed directly on the knee that had just been operated on. As a nurse, Thanatos is trained to help the individual that is falling to fall in a manner that will cause the least pain (or additional damage)—unfortunately, this meant attempting to catch three-hundred-plus pounds of dead weight and forcing it to correct course in the span of approximately five seconds. The resulting jolt to the system had caused him to herniate the two discs in his neck, and when they’d hit the tile, he’d cracked the back of his head open on the tile floor. The actual wound wasn’t so bad, but Zagreus had almost lost the little bit of food he’d managed to keep down when he’d first laid eyes on it in the hospital.

Then, he’d tried to… to _choke_ Thanatos. Ares had said that the man’s arm was covered in bright red lines, where Thanatos had clawed at him, trying to get him to release his throat. The nurse had panicked and rushed to get Ares, who’d managed to pull the patient off of Thanatos—but not before getting his face _smashed_ by the man’s elbow. They’d eventually been able to get the patient in the bed and sedated, and both Thanatos and Ares’ wounds were tended to on-site. Thanatos was checked for a concussion, and tasked with filling out the appropriate paperwork to document the incident, and they’d thought that that was the end of it. And it… Thanatos refused to tell him about _any_ of it, because… because… well, he didn’t even know.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even be mad at the patient. Apparently, he was having an allergic reaction to his medication—and had never before exhibited signs of violence. He’d even told several of the nurses who had been in to see him after that that he wanted to apologize to Thanatos for hurting him. Ares had passed the message along to Thanatos, who’d taken it about as well as could be expected. No, really. He was taking it _ridiculously_ well. He wasn’t even angry, which Zagreus didn’t understand, because _he_ was _furious_.

He’s scared, because he cannot remember ever being this _angry_ before. And he _knows_ that the anger isn’t justified—it’s not the patient’s fault that he had an allergic reaction to the medication, nor is it his fault that the allergic reaction caused him to become violent and to assault one of the nurses. But still…

He’s just so _angry_. And he knows that that’s not the energy that Thanatos needs right now… and so he’s here.

“Lad, that’s… it’s perfectly natural to be angry about something like that. You’re angry because someone you care about—someone you _love_ —is hurt. You’re angry because there’s nothing you can do about it. Your anger is justified…” He presses a fresh cup of coffee into Zagreus’ hands.

Zagreus takes a long sip of coffee, not even bothering to let it cool off first—“It feels… _wrong_ to be angry about it when Thanatos just… I guess I don’t really know _how_ Thanatos feels about all of this.”

“Everyone handles trauma differently.” Zagreus frowns, and Achilles adds, “And yes, this _is_ trauma.” Fixing himself his own cup of coffee, he takes a seat across from Zagreus and continues, “It’s also possible that Thanatos is in shock. The reality of the situation might not’ve set in until he was checked into the hospital—”

“I just… what if Ares hadn’t been there? What if Ares wasn’t a closet masochist, and had passed out like a _normal_ person would’ve after _biting off a piece of their own tongue_?” God, that room must’ve been a _bloodbath_.

“But Ares _was_ there. And like Pat said, a herniated disc is treatable—and, perhaps more importantly, _curable_. Thanatos might not be able to free-lift two-hundred pounds anymore, but there shouldn’t be any _severe_ side-effects.”

And then, Zagreus lets out the most heart-wrenching sob that Achilles has ever heard. “He… He put _make-up_ on his neck to hide the bruises from the… the…” He sets the coffee aside, before scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “H-He never wanted me to know.”

“He didn’t want you to worry.” Achilles says, “He didn’t want you doing _this_.”

“I…” he sucks in a deep breath, “What if he doesn’t recover? What if something goes wrong when they put him in traction and he… h-he…” It makes sense, to worry that one wrong move might cause Thanatos to become paralyzed. Especially after he’d woken that morning to Thanatos unable to move his neck and arm…

“You know, when I was… shot…” even know, the word leaves a sour taste in his mouth, “they were worried that I’d never be able to walk again.”

It wasn’t necessarily the same thing—and he’d hardly consider what happened with him to be a ‘success story’—but Zagreus needs to hear _something_ positive and if nothing else, _at least he can still walk_. It’s a low bar, true, but sometimes you need to set the bar rather low in order to come up with… well, _anything_ to be grateful for. Some days, he can barely muster the energy to be grateful for having enough money to pay the bills (with a little bit extra), for having two children that drive him crazy (that he loves dearly), for having a husband that loves him unconditionally…

But if it’s possible that his story could help just one person… if only briefly…

He’s already told him the technical bits of his story. He’d been shot in the line of duty, the wound had healed incorrectly, and now he suffers from crippling nerve entrapment. But when he’d first been admitted to the hospital, there had been a great deal of concern as to whether he’d keep the heel. Then, once his heel had been reconstructed, there’d been concern that the nerve damage was so extensive that he’d never be able to walk again. It’d taken a lot of physical therapy (in fact, he was still attending physical therapy—or, well, he _should_ be, but he’d been ducking his appointments lately), but he could _still_ _walk_. Somedays, he could even do it without the cane. But he likely wouldn’t be able to walk _at all_ if they hadn’t of gotten him to the hospital so fast—

“It’s okay to be afraid. Patroclus was afraid when he saw the extent of _my_ injuries, and he’s a _doctor_. He sees this sort of thing every day.” He gestures to his injured leg, “How you feel is how you feel. Even if you don’t understand your emotions… they’re proof of how much Thanatos means to you.”

“Can I… tell you something, sir?” Zagreus looks up at him, pure terror reflected in his mismatched eyes.

“Anything, lad.” Achilles kind of wants to give the poor kid a hug. He also thinks that the kid is about two seconds away from launching himself into his arms and squeezing the life out of him…

“I… When Ares told me what’d happened, I saw red. I wanted to hurt something, hurt _someone_. And I… I’ve never really thought that my father and I were anything alike. I’d always thought that I… that I was more like my mother. But in that moment, all I could think was that… me and him… maybe we’re not so different after all. And that… that terrified me more than anything else.”

“Zagreus…” And Achilles… he _definitely_ wasn’t expecting that.

“Achilles, sir… am I becoming my father?”


	10. The Case of the Missing Ring

“No,” His answer is immediate, before he’s even had a chance to finish processing the question. “You are _nothing_ like Hades, lad. I know that it’s hard at times like these… but I need you to remember something for me, okay? It’s perfectly natural to feel anger, and all sorts of other negative emotions.” He says.

Zagreus sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, “I…” He takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I just… sometimes I fantasize about what it’d be like if I had a different family. A _better_ family.” He averts his mismatched eyes, “Nyx is a fantastic mom, who actually _cares_ about her kids. Maybe I’d be better off if I’d—”

“Sometimes, family isn’t the one that you’re born into.” Achilles says, “I haven’t talked to my mother in eighteen years. Not for the same reasons, of course, but… I know what it feels like to be disconnected from your biological family.”

Zagreus sucks in a deep breath, “Nyx was always there for me when I was little… she used to babysit me all the time. In fact, that’s how I met Thanatos.” The lad smiles a bit at the memory, “And when she was too busy with commissions, Charon would babysit us.”

Achilles raises a brow, “Charon used to babysit you?”

He nods, “Yeah. He’s the oldest of Nyx’s kids, you know. And like ten years older than Hypnos and Thanatos.” Zagreus takes another sip of coffee, “He’d watch me, Than, Hypnos, Eris, Meg, Alecto, Tis, the Fates—”

“It sounds like he ran an actual daycare.” He chuckles. “Do you have good memories of those days?”

Zagreus’ entire face lights up as he nods. Achilles can’t remember the last time that he’d seen the lad this excited, and so he gently encourages him to tell him about some of his fonder memories. Wasting no time, Zagreus immediately launches into the story of how the kids had discovered that Hermes and Charon were dating. Charon had told Nyx that Hermes was coming over “to study”—which, in retrospect, he’s almost entirely sure that Nyx knew that absolutely _no_ studying was going on—and Nyx had suggested that Hermes help him watch the kids.

Charon wasn’t the most touchy-feely individual. So, when Hermes had cuddled up in his lap, reading a passage from _Moby Dick_ aloud (apparently, they’d been assigned as partners for a project, though Hermes was doing most of the work), all of the kids had known that something was up. It was Thanatos who had the courage to ask.

 _“So, um… what_ are _you two, exactly?” Seven-year-old Thanatos was even_ more _blunt than his adult counterpart, if that were at all possible. He’d looked between the two of them, arms crossed over his chest._

 _Hermes had grinned, “We’re what you might call ‘friends with benefits’.” The kids had stared at them, confusion clear on their faces. Charon had looked ready to duct tape Hermes’ mouth shut, when he’d continued, “I do all the reading and present the project, Charon types it up, and we_ both _share the A.”_

_Thanatos had raised an eyebrow, “And you have to sit on his lap to do that?” He clearly wasn’t convinced._

_“Yeah!” Hypnos had chimed in, sounding mildly indignant. “Big brother doesn’t even let_ us _sit in his lap!”_

 _“Oh, absolutely.” Hermes had flipped the page in his book, before snuggling down further into Charon’s lap. Charon had let out an indignant snort, rolling his eyes at Hermes’ antics. “This is_ prime _reading position, don’t you know?”_

_Little Zagreus had pursed his lips, “I wanna read in Than’s lap!”_

_Thanatos, bless his heart, had turned red as a tomato, before huffing out. “N-No! I have to… g-go do something that… that’s not_ here _.” And he’d scurried off to the sound of Meg and her sisters’ laughter._

Hermes was… absolute _garbage_ at babysitting. It’s not that he wasn’t good with kids—on the contrary, Hermes was rather like an overgrown child, playing (mostly innocent) pranks on literally _everyone_ (although his favorite ‘victim’ seemed to be Charon). He’d promise to buy the kids pizza, if they could find where Charon had stashed his allowance. He’d promise to take the kids to the park, if they could find where Charon had stashed his allowance (so that he could buy them all shaved ice from one of the food trucks at the park, of course). Come to think of it, all of the activities that Hermes got the kids involved in involved stealing some, or all, of Charon’s allowance. Charon would be royally _pissed_ , of course, but if they successfully snagged the money, he’d make good on Hermes’ promises.

Hermes was the absolute _worst_ enabler. Candy before dinner? You only live once, and they certainly weren’t spoiling anything when it came to Charon’s cooking (he tried, but somehow, he even managed to ruin food that only needed to be reheated). Horror movies before bed? He wouldn’t tell if they wouldn’t. Video games filled with sex, violence, and profanity? Okay, so he didn’t actually know about that one. Just like Hermes and Charon didn’t need to know that Nyx had given them _all_ “the talk” after Hypnos had found a box of condoms in Charon’s bedside drawer and tried to use them to make balloon animals. Zagreus thinks that he was just trying to raise Nyx’s blood pressure, considering that he and Thanatos were almost fifteen-years-old at the time—and _definitely_ knew what condoms were.

“I thought you hadn’t met the majority of your extended family until…” Achilles waves his hand, not wanting to reopen old wounds. He doesn’t know the specifics, but he knows that Hades isn’t on the best of terms with the rest of his family… not that that comes as a surprise, all things considered.

Zagreus shrugs, “Hermes was always the exception to the rule. He’s also kind of an outcast, in his own way. He always felt more at home with Nyx and her lot, so she just kind of… unofficially adopted him.”

“It sounds like you have a lot of fond memories with him.” Achilles is glad. Even if Hermes isn’t the _best_ role model, he’s still been a consistent, familial presence in Zagreus’ life—one that has, thus far, not let him down.

“I do.” Zagreus agrees. And then, smiling brightly, he continues, “There was this one time…”

Apparently, Hermes had a love-hate relationship with his older half-brother, Apollo. Zagreus didn’t know all of the details, because the story seemed to change every time that Hermes told it, and Apollo was never around for more than a day or so at a time (if he wasn’t traveling and performing with his band, the Muses, then he was generally attempting to avoid dealing with his twin sister, Artemis). But _somehow_ , Hermes had managed to convince Apollo and his band to play at Zagreus’ high school graduation party—a graduation party that’d been thrown by his extended family, since his father couldn’t be bothered (he hadn’t even shown up to the actual ceremony). He’d even talked him around to the idea of playing at Zagreus’ college graduation, before he’d been forced to drop out—

“You went to college?” He supposes that he shouldn’t be so surprised. Zagreus is a smart boy—he may not have a lot of practical life experience, but he has a great deal of book smarts. But still, Zagreus hadn’t listed a college education on his resume when he’d applied for the job…

A faint blush colors Zagreus’ cheeks, “I, um… I went for two years. I earned a football scholarship—all I had to do was maintain a 2.0 GPA, and I had a full-ride. It shouldn’t have been hard, but…”

Achilles furrows his brow, “Did you not like your major?” He knows that it can be more difficult to achieve good grades in a course that you don’t actually care about… hence his grades from the majority of high school.

“Well…” Zagreus drums his fingers along the sides of the coffee cup, “I didn’t actually get to choose my major. The only way that my father would let me attend the school was if I majored in business, so that I could inherit the family business. I… well, I was _really_ bad at it, and my GPA tanked, and I lost my scholarship.”

“Oh, lad…” Zagreus looks so embarrassed. “Business isn’t for everyone. It’s not your fault if it didn’t click.”

The lad chuckles blandly, “Tell that to my father. I tried. I really did. But once I lost my scholarship, I couldn’t afford to keep going… and father refused to help me apply for financial aid, or pay for my classes if I majored in anything else, so…” He shrugs. “It’s not like I need college, anyway.”

Achilles cocks his head to the side, “What did you _want_ to major in?”

Zagreus blinks, “I… I don’t know. I never really considered doing anything else. I never really had a choice.”

And that… that’s not fair. To think that the poor lad didn’t even know what he _wanted_ to do with his life, because he was always told what he would _have_ to do. And when he proved incapable of living up to the ideal that his father had created for him, he’d been cast aside. Achilles had never been much for studying, himself. His own mother had wanted him to go to college, but hadn’t threatened to cut him off when he’d told her that he planned on enlisting, instead. He just didn’t see the point in wasting money and time chasing after a degree he knew he’d never receive—

But that wasn’t the case for Zagreus. Zagreus was an intelligent kid—he just didn’t have a head for business. That wasn’t his fault, though Hades had certainly made him _feel_ like it was. There was so much damage there… Achilles wishes that there was more that he could do to help the lad to heal.

And the more that he hears, the more certain he becomes that Hades and Zagreus are absolutely _nothing_ alike.

“D-Did I say something wrong?” Zagreus looks at him, then, concern evident on his face. He shifts nervously, and Achilles notices that his hands have begun shaking again.

“No, lad. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Achilles repeats, “And you’re nothing like Hades. The fact that you’re sitting here, fretting over perfectly justifiable anger, is proof enough for me. You _care_ about people, Zagreus. You try to see the best in them, even when they’ve wronged you. That’s something to be admired.”

Zagreus lowers his eyes, “It certainly doesn’t feel like it.” He goes to take another sip of coffee, only to find that his cup is empty. Achilles grabs the cup for him, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can—”

Achilles shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it. I need to get up every once in awhile anyway, or else my leg will lock up.” Slowly, he makes his way over to the counter and begins pouring Zagreus another cup of coffee. “I know that this may sound cheap, coming from someone that hasn’t walked in your shoes, but—”

“No advice that you offer me could ever be cheap, Achilles sir.” Zagreus hurries to add.

“Thank you,” The corners of his lips twist up into an almost-smile. “You have to remember that it’s not what you feel, it’s how you channel those emotions. I’ll admit that I don’t know your father very well, but I _do_ know that he would never sit here worrying about the consequences of his anger.”

Zagreus sucks in a deep breath, “Yeah… I suppose you’re right.”

That’s a start. He hopes that he feels a little bit better. He can’t change the past, but he can help try to make things a little better for Zagreus now… “Now, how about you drink this, and then we go for a walk in the hospital garden? I think some fresh air might do you wonders…”

* * *

“Did you always known that you wanted to be a soldier?” Zagreus asks, as he bends to smell one of the blood red roses on the immaculately kept rose bushes that line the far side of the hospital.

Achilles frowns, considering. “I… I didn’t always want to be a soldier, no.” He adjusts his stance to take some of the weight off of his injured leg, “Look, I wasn’t… _smart_. My grades were decent, but that’s only because Patroclus used to do my homework for me… and let me cheat off of his tests.” He scratches the back of his neck, a little sheepish.

Zagreus raises a brow, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to… have him tutor you, or something?”

“Oh, we tried that. It really didn’t work out. I had trouble focusing for extended periods of time.” Achilles confesses, “Patroclus was a great teacher. I was just a bad student.” He shrugs.

“So, what did you want to do with your life, then?” He asks, again.

Achilles is silent for a moment, before continuing, “I don’t think I ever really had a solid plan. I was just… going to find a way to be wherever Patroclus was, no matter the cost. And in the end… he was the one who ended up following me.” He cannot help the way that regret tinges his tone.

He remembers how excited Patroclus had been when he’d received his first acceptance letter. Patroclus had been accepted by every school on his list—not that Achilles had been surprised, his husband (then boyfriend) was a _genius_ , and any school would be lucky to have him. Achilles hadn’t even started to fill out applications. He didn’t see the point, considering the fact that he’d coasted his way through the majority of high school. He wouldn’t make it past the first semester before he’d flunked out of all of his classes. He’d bypass academic probation and get kicked out—

Patroclus had been the one to suggest that they attend their high school’s College Fair. They’d talked to a handful of representatives from different schools in the area, including the local trade school, but nothing had really clicked. It wasn’t until they reached the marine recruiter that Achilles finally felt… _something_. This— _This_ could give him the sense of purpose which he so desperately sought. He’d never thought about enlisting (though, truth be told, he’d never thought about doing _anything_ with his life), but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to just… _fit_.

He’d enjoyed his conversation with the recruiter, but hadn’t intended to ever act on it. He knew that Patroclus wouldn’t approve. Patroclus had nothing but respect for the armed services, but he’d spend all his time worrying about all the things that _could_ happen instead of focusing on his studies. He’d encourage Achilles to do it because it was what Achilles wanted to do, but his heart wouldn’t be in it. And yet… somehow, they’d both ended up enlisting, Patroclus putting aside his dreams so that they could continue to be together. Patroclus had been able to take advantage of the tuition assistance program after completing two tours of service, and he’d graduated at the top of his class (both times), but still… Achilles would never forgive himself for making Patroclus put aside his dreams.

Zagreus sighs, “Thanatos offered to help me pay for my schooling, if I ever wanted to go back. He told me that he would give me what he’d managed to save up—it’s not much, but it’ll pay for a semester or two of classes at the community college. If we were to pool our funds together, I might even be able to graduate.”

“That’s a very sweet offer.” Achilles says. It seems like Zagreus found himself a keeper.

“I… I can’t take him up on it. Not now. In fact, while we’re on the topic… I wanted to ask you about something else.” Zagreus plucks one of the roses, twirling it between his fingers.

“What’s on your mind, lad?” He’s starting to get a bit sore. He’ll have to turn them back toward the hospital soon enough. But it’s good for him to get out and walk around a bit—honestly, he doesn’t do it often enough.

“I was wondering if I would be able to pick up a couple more hours at the gym? I know that I’m already pushing forty hours a week as it is, but…” he lowers his eyes, “Worker’s Compensation won’t pay Thanatos his full salary. And I want to make sure that he can still cover all of his expenses…”

Achilles offers him a genuine smile at that, “You’re a good kid, Zagreus.” Thanatos was lucky to have a… friend like him. “How about we iron out the specifics of your new schedule when you next come into work?”

“You…?” Zagreus is looking up at him like he doesn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “Really? Thank you! Thank you _so_ much! I’ll forever be in your debt, Achilles sir—”

By the time they make it back to the hospital, Thanatos has just finished filling out the discharge paperwork. He is wearing a neck brace, and his arm is tucked into a dark blue sling… and he’s on so much pain medication, he’s barely able to string together a sentence without slurring all of his words together. The doctor takes the time to explain all of the important information to Zagreus, giving him a copy of the paperwork (that Thanatos would likely have to explain to him again once he was no longer high as a kite) and a prescription for more pain medication.

“I should really take him home… thank you again for coming to sit with me. It really helped.” It is then that Zagreus realizes that he doesn’t actually have a way to get back to Thanatos’ apartment. “Err… I can always get an Uber. I’m sure that there has to be one in the area—”

“Zagreus,” Achilles stares at him blankly, “let me drive the two of you back to Thanatos’ place. He really ought to be put to bed as soon as possible.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you—didn’t you drive in with your husband?” Zagreus asks.

Achilles nods, “He has an important operation today. He’ll be in the operating theatre for several hours yet—I’ll be there and back before he can miss me.”

Zagreus still looks uncertain, but requires remarkably little convincing. Achilles leads the way out to his car, Zagreus following closely behind, pushing Thanatos in one of the hospital’s wheelchairs. It doesn’t take them long to load Thanatos in the car (though he bats, weakly, at Zagreus’ hands and assures him that he is more than capable of handling himself), and the poor lad falls asleep rather quickly once they hit the road in earnest. He’s going to be incredibly thankful for that neck brace, because if his head were to list any further to the side, he would surely injure his neck even more. Zagreus is silent for the majority of the ride, twiddling his thumbs and doing his best to ignore the fact that Thanatos seems to have forgotten everything that happened in the last two days…

Including that unfortunately timed love confession.

“You know, Achilles? What you told me earlier… the same goes for you.” Zagreus offers. And Achilles… he said a lot of things earlier. He’s not exactly clear as to which Zagreus is referring. “If being a soldier was something that you were good at, then you shouldn’t apologize for it.”

“Lad…” Achilles breathes, shock causing his eyes to widen ever so slightly. That… has to be the sweetest thing that the kid has ever said to him.

“Patroclus… it was his choice, to enlist alongside you. He wanted you to have that sense of purpose… just like Thanatos wanted to do for me…” Zagreus says. “It might not be my place, but… I think that your husband loves you very much, sir.”

* * *

Patroclus is already out of surgery by the time Achilles arrives back at the hospital.

Achilles thinks that it’s odd—Patroclus had mentioned that he was completing a complex procedure, which would take upwards of twenty hours. He couldn’t have been there for more than five. And he’s… shaking? Badly. Apollo catches him before he can make his way over to Patroclus and ask what’s wrong. Apparently, the patient had had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia, and had had a seizure in the middle of the operation. And he’d died on the table. It wasn’t the first time that Patroclus had lost a patient, but that didn’t make the loss any easier to bear. Apollo had attempted to explain to the family that it was a one in a million chance that he’d have such a reaction, but… well, the mother had wanted blood, and she’d actually drawn a bit of Patroclus’.

“That was the only case on his docket for today, so he’s free to go home now. I’ll handle all the necessary paperwork, so…” Apollo inclines his head toward Patroclus, “Please, take him home. Give him some time to decompress—”

“In all seriousness… I doubt that our home is the best place to take _anyone_ to decompress.” Achilles takes a slow, deep breath, “Thanks for letting me know, Apollo. I’ll take care of him from here.”

He can do this for Patroclus, he can. Patroclus is always putting Achilles’ needs before his own, always taking Achilles’ fears and insecurities with the utmost seriousness—and he works in a _gym_ (that’s not to say that he hasn’t had people get sick or hurt, or even pass out on his premises (thankfully, he hadn’t had anyone die, but it’s not outside of the realm of possibility)). His job is important— _all_ jobs are important—but it’s nowhere near as important as Patroclus’. He doesn’t literally hold people’s lives in his hands…

Err… well, when he puts it like that, his job doesn’t sound very important at all, now does it? And really… it’s not so much of a _job_ as it is a _pet project_. It’s something to get him out of the house, but it’s not making a difference like… like Patroclus, or Apollo, or even Alecto. They don’t even _really_ need the money that he’s bringing in—sure, it’s allowing them to put extra money away for Pyrrhus’ (and now Amaltheia’s) college funds, but… He nips that train of thought in the bud. Patroclus needs him to be strong. This isn’t about him.

He makes his way over to Patroclus, and makes sure that the other man can _see_ him before laying a hand on his shoulder. He looks like he wants to tell Achilles something, but is having trouble finding the words—or getting his mouth to cooperate. Achilles presses a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him.

“You don’t have to say anything, Pat. Why don’t you grab your things, and we’ll head home? I’ll run you a nice bath… maybe make some of that herbal, stress relieving tea that you like so much?” Achilles offers.

“I… that would be nice, yes.” Patroclus’ voice is weak, so much so that Achilles has to strain to hear it—even with the rather short distance between them. “Apollo… he already gathered my things. So, can we just… go home? Please?”

“Of course.” Achilles takes Patroclus’ bag and slings it over his right shoulder, before taking Patroclus’ hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

It doesn’t escape his notice, as he laces his fingers with Patroclus’, that his husband isn’t wearing his wedding ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm thinking about doing a 'twelve days of Christmas' Charmes fic, set in this universe. Would anyone be interested in reading it? I'm interested in exploring the other characters' stories in this 'verse a little bit more, outside of Achilles' limited POV.


	11. The Deepest Valleys

Achilles knows that Patroclus takes the ring off to operate. There’s a chance that Apollo had simply forgotten to grab it out of Patroclus’ locker in all of the excitement. The thought makes him feel a little better, though he’s still a little on-edge about the whole situation. Still, he puts on a brave face—if not for his own sake, then for Patroclus’.

Patroclus seems to notice him staring at his naked ring finger, because he tucks his hand away, deep in his pocket.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Achilles feels sick to his stomach. He wonders if he should be driving… but when he considers placing Patroclus behind the wheel, when his husband doesn’t even look like he’s fully aware of what’s transpiring around him, he realizes that he doesn’t really have a choice. They don’t live that far from the hospital, after all, so it _should_ be fine.

They spend the duration of the ride in silence. Achilles knows that he should at least make an effort to start up a conversation, but he’s not sure what he would even talk about. This is not the first time that Patroclus had lost a patient on the table, but that doesn’t make the loss any easier to bear. He can even see where the mother had scratched him with her nails—he’ll have to remember to wash that out with peroxide once they’re home and settled. They really needed to improve their hospital security. Maybe Ares could pick up a couple of shifts, if he was wanting for cash? If what the lad had told him was true, Ares had had no trouble taking down a man near twice his size. Not that he’s advocating for anyone to be tackled.

He just… thinks that everyone ought to learn how to keep their hands to themselves. Is that too much to ask for?

By the time they arrive at the house, Achilles is still contemplating all the things that he ought to say. Nothing seems to quite _fit_ the situation at hand. He pulls into their driveway, tucking the car in alongside Briseis’, and cuts the engine. They sit in silence for several moments, Patroclus with his nose pressed to the glass, his unfocused eyes considering the mess of toys that Patroclus had strewn all over their yard, and Achilles with his hands still curled around the wheel, his mind moving a mile a minute as he considers all manner of what-ifs. It seems like an eternity passes before Patroclus lets himself out of the car (and immediately tucks his ringless hand back into his pocket), and begins the slow trek inside, his head hung low.

Achilles follows him inside, though it takes him considerably longer to cover the same distance. Briseis is there to greet him, open concern on her pretty face as she continues to go through the motions of making lunch. Achilles wants to tell her everything, but finds that the words are stuck in his throat.

In the end, it is all he can do to ask, “Can you put on the kettle? I’d like to make Pat some of that stress-relieving tea.”

Briseis stares at him, eyes wide. “Um… sure. Yeah, I can do that.” Rinsing off her hands in the sink, she moves to fill the bright yellow tea kettle with water and set it to boil. “Is everything alright? I wasn’t expecting you back until late—”

“It’s…” Achilles swallows hard, “No. Pat lost a patient on the table, and it’s hitting him really hard. He hasn’t said a word since we left the hospital, and—” Achilles doesn’t know what to do. “So, I want to make him the tea… maybe run him a hot bath? Anything I can to help him decompress…”

“Oh dear…” Briseis’ gaze is sympathetic as she resumes preparing Pyrrhus’ lunch, “You must be so worried about him.” Achilles sets his can aside so that he can lean against the island counter.

“I am.” He concedes, “This isn’t the first time this has happened, but… he doesn’t usually shut me out like this.”

She nods, “Well… it’s possible that this time just hit him differently. Everyone processes trauma in their own way—and as long as they don’t become a threat to themselves or others, sometimes the only thing that you can do is let them work it out for themselves.” She says.

“Yeah…” It’s not like he doesn’t know that. It’s just… hearing her say it out loud somehow makes him feel even _more_ useless. He didn’t even think that that was possible.

Briseis, seemingly sensing his unease, presses a little harder, “Do you want to talk about what happened with Zagreus?” Ah, yes. The whole reason that they’d asked her to come over early that morning.

He doesn’t have all the details, but he fills her in on what he knows. He tells her about how he’d become somewhat of a mentor to his only employee, who also happened to be his landlord’s oldest child. How the lad had been having romantic troubles with a ‘close friend’ of his, and how he desperately wanted to make the relationship work despite not having any real role models upon which to base a healthy, romantic relationship off of. How he’d somehow gotten it into his head that Achilles’ trainwreck of a home life (that he was slowly beginning to realize wasn’t as much of a trainwreck as he had come to believe) was somehow worth emulating. How he’d had sex with his ‘close friend’ a handful of hours before he’d gotten two herniated discs on the job and had ended up hospitalized—

Briseis frowns, “You know, that’s your problem, Achilles.” His mouth snaps closed with an audible _click_. What is she talking about? He doesn’t have a problem… okay, he _does_ , but that’s beside the point. “You’re always talking down about your relationship with Pat. It’s no wonder he—” She cuts herself off abruptly.

Achilles blinks. This is one of the first times he’s ever mentioned the fact that his relationship with Patroclus is anything but perfect—the only other person he’d ever mentioned it to had been Zagreus, in passing. “No wonder he _what_ , Brie?” Did she know something that he didn’t?

She heaves a dramatic sigh, “Look… it’s really not my place to be talking about any of this.” She says. Achilles frowns—that certainly hadn’t stopped her from taking it this far, now had it. “But Pat’s been talking to my dad.”

“Your father?” Achilles voice is tight. His entire body is _tensed_ , like he’s prepping for her to strike him. “But he’s a…”

“Divorce attorney? I know.” Achilles thinks that he’s forgotten how to breathe. What would Patroclus need to talk to a _divorce attorney_ about? Just last night, he was saying how much he loved Achilles… “Look, I don’t know the specifics—attorney-client privilege and all that—but I just thought that you should know.”

“Know _what_?! That my husband of eighteen years is planning on leaving me?” Achilles thinks he might be yelling, but he can’t actually tell. “Because it’s really feeling like I’m _still_ the last to know.”

Briseis shakes her head, “No, that’s not… I told you, nothing was set in stone.”

“That’s certainly not what it sounded like, over here.” He’s interrupted by the sound of the kettle blowing—the water is ready for Patroclus’ tea. He feels tears burning in the corners of his eyes at the thought of facing him, now that he knows… “I thought that you were my friend, Brie.”

Briseis recoils ever so slightly, “I _am_ your friend. But I’m Pat’s friend, too. And the last thing I want is to have to take sides in all of this—” But she will. If her reaction is any indication, she already has.

“Just…” He wants to say something nice, something _reassuring._ He can’t think of anything. “Just… let me through.”

He manages to fix Patroclus his stress relieving tea without engaging in further conversation with Briseis. He can taste bile rising in the back of his throat as he wraps his hands around Patroclus’ favorite mug and tries to push the memories of his recent conversation with Briseis to the back of his mind. Briseis, thankfully, doesn’t try to stop him.

He finds Patroclus sitting on their bed, his muscular legs tucked up underneath him with a thin, handmade blanket draped over his lap. Chiron is at his side, walking in half circles around his trembling form and rubbing his furry little self all over Patroclus’ tank top. Achilles takes a deep breath, reminding himself that this isn’t about him. He has all the time in the world to be upset about whatever it is that’s going on with Patroclus—but he only has this one chance to provide comfort for what’d happened today at the hospital.

Achilles doesn’t consider himself to be the most comforting person in the world… but for Patroclus, he’d try anything.

“I brought you some of that herbal tea that you like.” He offers. It takes a second for Patroclus to look at him, “You don’t have to drink it all, but it’d probably be good to take a couple of sips.”

Patroclus blinks. Gathering up a bit of the blanket, he uses it to shield his hands from the overheated porcelain as he takes the mug and gives the contents a quick sniff. “The stress-relieving herbal blend?”

Achilles nods, “The same.”

His husband blows on it, attempting to cool if off a little, before taking a small sip. “It’s good. Thank you.” Lowering the cup, he studies Achilles’ face for a moment. “What’s the matter, Achilles? You look like you’ve been crying.” He tries to meet Achilles’ gaze, though Achilles struggles valiantly to not meet his eyes.

“Oh, this?” He wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm. “It’s nothing. I just… I must have something in my eye, that’s all.” He tries to smile, but it’s shaking. He feels like he’s going to be sick again.

“Achilles…”

“Is there anything that I can do to help you? I want to help, but I… I hate to admit that I don’t really know how.” He breathes, “And I don’t want to accidentally make it worse by—”

“Could you… grab one of the books from over on that shelf, there?” Patroclus motions to their bookcase, “And just… come sit with me and read? It doesn’t have to be anything super deep or prolific. I don’t care if you want to read me the Berenstain Bears. I just… it’ll be nice to hear your voice, I think.”

And how is he supposed to say no to that? He selects a book (it’s not one of Pyrrhus’ books, but it’s also not something super heavy—both he and Patroclus have read _Good Omens_ before, and know that it’s always good for a pick-me-up when they need one). He climbs onto the bed, making himself comfortable against the sea of pillows that’re propped up against their headboard. Patroclus takes the time to prop his left ankle up with one of the softer pillows, before hunkering down in-between Achilles’ legs. Achilles is surprised, for a moment, that Patroclus still fits… Achilles has lost a tremendous amount of muscle mass in the wake of his injury, after all. But Patroclus, much like their cat, always seems to find a way to squeeze himself into the unlikeliest of spaces.

Speaking of their cat… never one to be left out, Chiron hunkers down next to Achilles’ injured leg, tosses one of his hind legs over his elevated ankle, and starts purring. Achilles snorts—he can almost hear Pyrrhus cooing about how that means that Chiron has claimed Achilles as his ‘hooman’. Wrapping both of his arms around Patroclus, Achilles’ cracks the book open to the first page… only for the first couple of pages to come loose of the binding and tumble out onto Patroclus’ lap. Hmm… maybe they’d read this book one too many times.

He makes his way through the first page, before Patroclus interrupts him to ask, “Are you _sure_ that you’re alright, Achilles? Your voice… it’s shaking.”

“Is it?” Of course, he knows that his voice is shaking. He absolutely refuses to admit it, though. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just a little nervous to be reading aloud, that’s all. You know that I’m not the best at this sort of thing.”

Patroclus taps Achilles’ chest, right over his heart, “You don’t have anything to worry about, you know? It’s just me.”

Achilles’ hands tighten around the book. He never thought that he’d ever think of Patroclus as being part of the problem, but… “Yes, I know.” He swallows hard, and begins to read again.

* * *

He finds Patroclus’ ring buried in his bedside table… How had he not noticed that he hadn’t even been wearing it when they’d left that morning? He supposes that he’s so used to seeing it adorning Patroclus’ finger, he’s not necessarily on the lookout for him going without.

He knows that he doesn’t have much room to talk. He doesn’t wear his own ring, and hasn’t worn it for the last six months or so… But something about _Patroclus_ taking his ring off strikes all the wrong chords with him. And burying it in the drawer like that? He’s acting like he has something to hide, like he didn’t want Achilles to accidentally stumble across it while going about his business. Achilles takes a deep breath, turning the simple band over and over between his fingers. Could Briseis have been telling him the truth? Could Patroclus have really been seeking out the advice of a divorce lawyer? He wants to believe that it isn’t true, but… the more that he thinks about it, the more sense that it makes.

After all, _Achilles_ doesn’t want to be with Achilles the majority of the time. Why would Patroclus keep wasting time on him, knowing that his broken cup just kept _cracking_? He takes the ring and places it back in the drawer, near to where he’d found it. There’s no point in staring at it for the rest of the night.

“Are you alright, love?” Patroclus calls from the bathroom. His voice sounds a little stronger now—that’s good.

“I… I’m fine.” Achilles says. He slams the door shut, before grabbing another towel from the closet and going to join Patroclus in the bathroom. “How is the water? It’s not too hot, is it?”

“Actually, it’s a little cool.” He says. Before Achilles can offer to fix it, Patroclus reaches out to take his hand, “Why don’t you come and sit with me? That’s sure to warm the water right up.” Patroclus has been extraordinarily touchy-feely ever since they’d arrived home, which he found… _odd_ , when he considered what Briseis had to say earlier.

“Are you sure…?” He can’t help but feel like he’s intruding… like they’re two puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit.

Patroclus frowns, “Of course, I’m sure. Why’re you acting so weird all of a sudden?” His eyes flit to Patroclus’ naked finger once more. He wants to say something, of course he does. But tonight _isn’t about him_.

He can keep his wayward emotions in check for _one_ night, dammit.

He doesn’t answer Patroclus’ question. Instead, he focuses on undressing himself—tossing his dirty clothes into the overflowing hamper by the toilet (when was the last time that either of them had even considered doing the laundry? They might need to consider getting a maid). Patroclus studies him carefully, his teeth sinking into his plump bottom lip… there’s a familiar spark in his eyes, though it’s been awhile since Achilles has seen Patroclus direct it at him. There’s a slight twinge of interest down below… and perhaps, if he weren’t so distressed, he might’ve considered trying it. But right now, he has to be a bit more creative with the means of comfort he has at his disposal. Taking a deep breath, he sinks into the tub, opposite Patroclus—

“Is that better?” He isn’t quite sure how his presence is supposed to warm up the water, but Patroclus nods, and that’s good enough for him. “I was really worried about you earlier. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clam up like that.”

“I… It’s not the first time that I’ve lost a patient, you know that. And, honestly… the odds of him surviving the operation were slim. It was an experimental procedure that’d only been performed successfully a handful of times…” Patroclus takes a deep breath, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

“But, from what Apollo said, it wasn’t your fault that the patient…” he waves his hand, not wanting to come right out and say ‘that the patient _died_ ’. “He had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia.”

“Yes.” Patroclus nods, “Anesthesia that _Apollo_ administered.” He clarifies. “He was supposed to check to make sure that the patient didn’t have any allergies that might conflict with the anesthesia.”

Achilles furrows his brows, “And he didn’t do that?”

“Honestly… I think that he did? I don’t normally check—I just kind of assume that he does it, because that’s part of his job.” Patroclus heaves a dramatic sigh, “You know what they say about assuming.”

“Pat,” Achilles breathes, “this isn’t on you.”

“I know that. Logically… I know that.” Patroclus’ dark eyes meet Achilles red-rimmed pair, “And, really… I trust that Apollo checked to make sure there weren’t any allergies before he administered the anesthesia. He’s good at his job—I wouldn’t keep him on the payroll, otherwise.”

He doesn’t understand, “Then… what has you so upset? I’m sorry, I… I just don’t seem to understand.”

Patroclus cocks his head to the side, “Don’t you think that it being a freak accident just makes it so much… I don’t know, so much _worse_? Like… for all of the training that I received, all of the studying that I did… I couldn’t have saved him, even if I wanted to.”

He supposes that that makes sense, in a sort of roundabout way. If the patient had died because, despite Patroclus doing everything within his power to save him, it was simply his time, then that would be one thing. But the fact that the patient had had an unexpected reaction to the anesthesia… it made him feel out of control, because it was something _outside of his control_. Achilles would think that it would bring him some measure of comfort, to know that there was absolutely nothing he could have done to change the outcome of the situation, but he can respect that that’s not for everyone. Like Briseis had said, he and Patroclus handle traumatic situations differently, and that’s okay. As long as he’s processing the emotions in a healthy way…

…He’s one to talk about handling emotions in a healthy manner.

But still… Achilles reaches out, grabbing Patroclus’ favorite body wash and lathering it up on a bath loofah. He encourages Patroclus to keep talking as he begins giving him a thorough scrub-down. It’s not the gentle washing that Patroclus had administered the other night—he’s not overly rough, either, but there’s a bit of a flush to Patroclus’ skin where the loofah glides over it. Patroclus has always preferred a bit of rough handling, where Achilles has always preferred to be treated gently, like he’s delicate, _breakable_.

Patroclus… Patroclus is holding his heart in his hands. The pieces are being held together with paperclips and bubblegum, and are ready to fall to ruin at any second… He wants, desperately, to bring up the ring. Or to mention his conversation with Briseis. But something keeps holding him back?

What if Briseis was right?

What if Patroclus really intended to leave?

Would he take the house? The _kids_?

“Seriously, Achilles… what’s up with you?” Patroclus sounds much better, now that he’s gotten everything off of his chest. “If there’s something that I can help with, then…”

And Achilles is so deep in his thoughts, he cannot help but blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I… I think it might be best if I spend the rest of the night in a hotel.” As soon as he registers what he’d just said, his heart starts hammering in his chest. That’s not going to help anything at all!

“Wait, what? Why?” Patroclus’ face clouds over in concern, “Achilles, really… Are you uncomfortable being in the bath together because…?” His eyes flit downward. He’s half-erect; Achilles hadn’t even noticed.

“I-I… _no_. That… That’s _natural_ , right?” Achilles doesn’t want to make him feel bad. The _last_ thing that Achilles wants is for Patroclus to blame himself for _any_ of this. This _is_ his fault, after all. “I just… It’s just something that I need to do.”

“Something that you need to…?” Patroclus frowns, “Wouldn’t you rather stay here, with us?”

“I-I’m sorry…” and then he starts to cry.

* * *

Achilles grabs one of the suitcases from the closet and shoves it into the backseat of the car. Patroclus is _still_ attempting to convince him to change his mind, his ringless hand stuffed into the pocket of his sweatpants (Achilles still couldn’t bring himself to mention that he’d found the ring tucked away in the bottom of Patroclus’ bedside table drawer, and Patroclus was still confused as to what’d caused Achilles’ sudden desire to flee). Achilles just starts to cry _harder_ —which makes Patroclus even _more_ worried; Achilles _really_ shouldn’t be driving in this condition, no matter the reason—if he’s upset enough to be spending the night in a hotel, then he can have the bed and Patroclus will sleep on the couch. It’ll achieve the same effect—

Achilles cannot forgive himself for not allowing Patroclus to have _one_ day. Just _one_. He had to make the situation about himself—no wonder Patroclus didn’t want to be with him anymore. If he puts some distance between them, allows himself some time to think over everything that Briseis said (does he really only talk down about his relationship? Patroclus is, and always has been, the light of his life—anything that is wrong with their relationship is one-hundred percent his fault).

“It’ll be okay.” He doesn’t know if he actually believes that when he says it to Patroclus, or after he drives for forty-five minutes, only to end up in front of the _gym_ , of all places. Hadn’t he just gotten done telling Zagreus that he shouldn’t spend the night in the gym, because of the complete lack of air-conditioning?

It’d be even worse, knowing that the gym hadn’t been open all day.

Well… he’d already fucked everything _else_ up royally. What was one more thing to add to the list?


	12. Gym Adventures

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he doesn’t have _any_ of his medications stowed away in his locked desk drawers—and he certainly hadn’t been in any kind of shape to remember to pack any of it when he’d run out of the house earlier that night. He’d simply taken one of the suitcases that he’d already had packed, just in case—

It’s quite the chore to get the bag downstairs into the utility closet/office. He _really_ needs to have another talk with Hades about making the building ADA compliant—he doesn’t care how much it costs; and if Hades is too stingy to foot the bill, he’ll put up the money himself. But it’s really only a matter of time until he falls coming down these stairs, and heaven forbid he hurts himself _more_ than he’s already hurt. He’s already toeing the line with being able to walk, most days. One bad fall could make that a thing of the past.

The office is… _stuffier_ than he’d been expecting. It seems that they’d never quite been able to get rid of the scent of musty towels after Zagreus’ little incident with the washing machine. The fan _is_ still down there, thankfully, and though it will do little more than push the scent of rot around the room, Achilles makes a beeline for it and turns it on to full power. The gym is quiet at night, without the low roar of people talking, the constant thrum of the machines being operated… The fan helps to fill a bit of the silence, yes, but something still isn’t quite right.

The last time he’d spent the night away from Patroclus, he’d been in the hospital, recovering from his gunshot wound. Sure, they’d spent the night in separate beds since then, but… they’d always been under the same roof. Achilles had always known when Patroclus was leaving for work, would take comfort in his ramblings about whatever it was he planned to make for dinner as he rushed about, getting himself ready for another day of tending to patients. What’s more… here, there is no baby monitor to keep him apprised of Amaltheia’s condition… in fact, there’s no _Amaltheia_ , no Pyrrhus to come rushing in after he’s had a bad dream… The gym is not his home, it’s not even a cheap imitation of it. But it’s where he intends to spend the night, perhaps longer—

He needs time to sort out the wayward thoughts inside of his head. Right now, he’s having difficulty discerning which are his own, and which have taken root as a result of his conversation with Briseis. Yes, it’s odd that Patroclus had chosen to take off his ring _now_ , of all times. Yes, it’s odd that Achilles had found that ring buried at the bottom of his bedside table drawer. And yes, it’s odd that he’d been talking to a divorce attorney. But none of these things mean _anything_ unless Patroclus _tells_ him that he no longer wants to be with him. He likes to think that Patroclus would not spare his feelings in this regard—if Achilles is no longer good for him, then he needs to cut him off. But until he comes out and _says_ as much, there’s no need to worry.

Oh, who is he trying to kid? He’s going to worry, no matter what. It’s become an unfortunate part of his nature.

He heaves his suitcase up onto the table, deciding to take a quick inventory of everything that he’d packed. It’d been awhile since he’d packed the suitcases he kept stored away in the dark recesses of the closet, and he doesn’t actually remember everything that they contain. Hopefully, there’s a blanket or two in there…

Not because he’s cold, no. He doesn’t trust the couch.

Apparently, he _had_ indeed been thinking ahead when he’d packed this suitcase, because there are two thick, fleece blankets rolled up in the far corner (now that he really thinks about it, it _had_ been winter at the time). There are three changes of clothes, and a pair of pajamas that he doesn’t remember buying—let alone _wearing_. They look to be Christmas-themed, but are thankfully not fleece. He has all of his bathroom toiletries, a spare nebulizer, and some non-perishable snacks. It’s nothing substantial, but then, Achilles usually isn’t super hungry. He’s not particularly hungry right now, but he still opens up one of the packs of crackers and forces himself to eat. Even if he doesn’t have his medication with him, he still took his pills today and doesn’t want an upset stomach.

He’s just started prepping the couch for bed when he hears his text notification go off. He has a feeling he knows who it is that’s trying to reach him—even though he knows that he should talk to Patroclus, if only to let him know that he’s safe, it still takes until his phone goes off a second time… and then a third.

From: Love of My Life :Purple_Heart:  
Achilles, I know that you said you needed your space, and I can respect that. Just… please let me know that you’re safe. It’s been two hours.  
Sent at 9:27PM

From: Love of My Life :Purple_Heart:  
If this is about my not wearing the ring, I promise that there is a reasonable explanation.   
Sent at 9:30PM

From: Love of My Life :Purple_Heart:  
Please, Achilles. I’m really worried.   
Sent at 9:30PM

Patroclus must be really upset, if he’s texting in full sentences. Much as he loves Patroclus, his texts are often borderline incomprehensible. Just like he’s handwriting. Achilles reads over the messages again—of course he would say that there is a perfectly logical explanation for taking off the ring. Taking a deep breath, he sets the phone aside and focuses on finishing making up the couch. He uses one blanket to cover where the cushions are spewing stuffing, and he uses the other to bundle up the pillows into something that might resemble comfort. Had it really been two hours since he’d left? He hadn’t thought that he’d been gone for so long, but then… time can be kind of funny, when he feels like this. And he supposes that he _had_ been driving around for quite awhile before…

He takes his phone and types out a quick message back—

From: Sunshine Boy :Yellow_Heart:  
I’m safe. I think that I’ll be ready to talk more tomorrow.  
Sent at 9:37PM

From: Sunshine Boy :Yellow_Heart:  
I love you.  
Sent at 9:38PM

—then he puts his phone aside, and falls asleep without waiting for a response.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep well. That’s not a surprise, considering that his bed was a couch that they’d purchased together from the little bit of money they’d managed to scrounge together working part-time jobs the summer before their senior year of high school. His leg is _killing_ him, and the thought of climbing upstairs to open the gym _actually_ makes him want to cry. But he realizes that, if he _doesn’t_ do it, it’ll be even worse. Not only will he be rattled with guilt for keeping the gym closed two days in a row (even if he’d had a perfectly legitimate reason the first day), but if he doesn’t get up and at least _try_ to move around, then he’s not going to be able to move by the end of the day. So, he drags himself off of the couch and reaches into his suitcase for a change of clothes—

He’s about to step into a clean pair of sweatpants when his phone starts ringing again. He knows that it isn’t Patroclus, because he has his husband’s number tied to a special ringtone (you know, in case there’s an emergency, so that he knows to answer the call instead of letting it roll over to voicemail). For a second, he thinks about answering… but he’s barely awake, and not really in the mood to talk to anyone. And if it’s Zagreus, giving him a call to let him know that he won’t be in to work today… well, he wasn’t expecting him to show today, anyway.

Once he’s dressed, he grabs his phone to check for any missed messages…

From: Love of My Life :Purple_Heart:  
I love you, too, sweetie…  
Sent at 9:42PM

From: Love of My Life :Purple_Heart:  
Pyrrhus wanted me to send you a picture of the new birdhouse he built with Briseis. He said that he was sorry he ruined the last one.  
Sent at 4:12AM  
PHOTO ATTACHMENT

Achilles scrolls down a little bit further. It’s clear that Patroclus had taken a considerable amount of time to find the perfect angle for the picture—the lighting makes the birdhouse (a two-story, avant garde build, with space in the back for an actual birdbath) look absolutely _radiant_. There’s about a pound of silver glitter dusted on top of an adorably messy blue ombre paint job. There’s a second picture underneath, which shows that the paint is actually glow and the dark—that is going to light up their entire back porch. How sweet.

He continues checking his missed messages. As he suspected, there’s one from Zagreus…

_“Achilles, sir? I think I’m going to have to call out of work today. Than’s a little drowsy from all the pain medication he’s on, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone here. I know that I haven’t been working at the gym long enough to have any PTO stored up, but I’m going to have to take the hit—”_

Achilles sighs. He doesn’t think that he’s an unreasonable man. Even if Zagreus hasn’t build up any PTO yet, he can make an exception, just this once. It’s not like he has any other employees to account for, after all—so there’s no one to get jealous over Zagreus receiving ‘preferential treatment’. He’ll just write himself a note to go into the computer and adjust Zagreus’ hours at the end of the pay period, as if he had come into work today. Limping over to his desk on the far side of the room, he grabs a packet of Post-It notes from the first drawer and scribbles a quick note-to-self, before tacking it up on the computer amidst the sea of pictures he only half-cares about. Now, so long as he actually remembers to come down here before the bank takes out the money for the direct deposits…

Once he’s brushed his teeth and combed his hair, he realizes that the only thing he’s missing is a razor. It’s been just long enough since he’d last shaved that he can feel the barest hint of stubble dotting his chin… It’s not the most professional look, but it’ll have to do for now. He has the most difficulty putting on his shoes—the sole of the shoe puts just enough pressure on his heel to make black dots appear in the corners of his eyes. Fuck, he’s _really_ going to regret leaving without his pain medication…

About half an hour later, he finds himself upstairs, ready to do what he can of the morning checklist. He’s not expecting to see anyone at the front doors—the gym doesn’t open for another couple of hours. But then… is that Nyx? Had Patroclus called her to come see if Achilles was holed up in the gym?

“Good morning, Achilles.” Nyx smiles at him. Achilles cannot remember the last time that he’d seen Nyx this early in the morning—and he knows for a fact that her studio won’t be open for another several hours, at least.

“Good morning.” He says, brows furrowed. He can’t help but feel a spike of annoyance at the thought that she may have come here at Patroclus’ behest. He knows that it’s completely unjustified—that, if anything, she just wants to _help_ —but his emotions are all out of whack at the moment, and he cannot help how he feels.

Nyx takes a deep breath, and Achilles can see that her dark eyes are a little swollen. “Look, I… I wanted to stop by and see if there was anything that I could help you with. You see, I know that Zagreus will be staying home with Thanatos today, leaving you shorthanded…”

Achilles blinks, “Oh, but I couldn’t possibly impose on you like that. Not after you were so kind as to come over and help me close up the other day…”

She shakes her head, “You’re not imposing. It’ll be a good distraction, I think. I usually don’t have any customers come in on the weekends anyway, so it would just be me, myself, and I, cooped up in that studio.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Achilles knows, first hand, just how hard it can be when you get trapped inside of your own head, left with only your own malicious thoughts for company.

“You’re a good man, Achilles.” She says, as he steps aside to let her into the still-dark building.

He chuckles a little, but it sounds hollow to his own ears. “I don’t know if I’m that. But… thank you.”

Nyx is more than willing to handle the labor-intensive parts of opening the gym, including all of the cleaning. This allows Achilles the chance to sit down in front of the computer and pay his bills (some of which are several days overdue—whoops). He feels bad, putting her to work like this, but she has no complaints. In fact, she seems thankful to constantly be moving, and after asking him to check the quality of her work the first couple of times, she flies through the rest of the morning checklist with ease.

As it turned out, she had had to hear through the grapevine that Thanatos had been injured. As soon as she’d heard the news, she’d called Zagreus (after trying to get ahold of Thanatos three times, and having each call get sent to voicemail), who had filled her in by repeating, verbatim, the explanation of herniated discs that Patroclus had provided him over the phone. Nyx had offered her support and asked that Zagreus keep her apprised of Thanatos’ condition… and hadn’t heard anything from either of them since. She _assumed_ that that was a good thing, but… She was struggling, because she had always tried to encourage independence in her children, and the fact that Thanatos hadn’t told her about the injury meant that he didn’t think it was serious enough to warrant concern—

As Achilles listens, he is reminded of how Zagreus had panicked in an incredibly similar fashion back at the hospital. Thanatos had also withheld crucial information from him, worried that it would cause him to panic unnecessarily. It sounds like Thanatos had attempted to downplay the severity of his own injuries to calm _himself_ —because if everyone _around_ him saw reason to panic, then surely that would cause _him_ to panic as well. Achilles doesn’t know if that was a particularly _smart_ plan, all things considered, but it was certainly a _plan_.

“So, what’s going on with you?” Nyx asks, about twenty minutes later. She disposes of a pair of yellow rubber gloves, before returning the bottle of cleaning solution she’d been using to the appropriate cabinet. “It’s not like you to be here so early.”

No, he supposes that it isn’t… “Just some… trouble in paradise, that’s all. I heard some _alarming_ news from a friend, and it’s made me think about some things. That’s all.”

Nyx arches a brow, “Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes it helps to hear the opinion of an impartial third party.”

Achilles has his doubts about whether or not Nyx is actually ‘impartial’… but decides that talking to her about it can’t hurt. “I… alright. There’s this woman, Briseis. She’s a friend of ours from high school, the surrogate mother for our kids, et cetera et cetera.” He waves his hand, “Her father is a divorce attorney.”

Nyx hums, “Alright.”

“Well, I was at the hospital yesterday for…” he stops abruptly, realizing that it’s probably for the best if he doesn’t tell Nyx that he’d learned about Thanatos’ injury long before she had. “That’s not important. Anyway, Pat had a rough go of it with a patient’s family, so I brought him home, only to realize he hadn’t been wearing his ring, and, well…”

He pauses, just in time to see that he has an incoming text message from Briseis.

From: Brie-Brie :sparkle: :sparkle:  
Hey, I just wanted to say that I hope ur okay.   
Sent at 7:03AM

From: Brie-Brie :sparkle: :sparkle:  
I think that I may’ve said too much yesterday. I’m just… I’m worried about u 2. I haven’t seen u 2 this out of sorts since Hector made a pass at Pat.  
Sent at 7:04AM

From: Brie-Brie :sparkle: :sparkle:  
I’m sorry :red_heart: :red_heart:   
Sent at 7:04AM

Achilles turns off his phone, before pushing it to the far side of the desk. While he can admit that it’s nice of her to apologize, he doesn’t feel quite ready to accept it. Besides, he’s not even entirely convinced that she has anything she needs to apologize for. After all, she was just giving him a heads-up—imagine how blindsided he would be if a service processor walked into the gym one day and took a machete to his rose-colored glasses? Though, to be honest, he’s not sure if _knowing_ is all that much better.

This way he’s just… constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Nyx offers him a soft smile, “Achilles… if you _really_ think that he’s just going to leave you after you’ve been together for—” Achilles mumbles a soft ‘twenty-three years’, “then you and Pat need to sit down and have a _serious_ talk.”

Achilles shakes his head, “I can’t face him. Not after…” Not after he hadn’t even been able to put his own selfishness aside for five minutes to take care of his husband’s needs. “Besides, Briseis seemed fairly convinced that that was what Pat was discussing with her father—”

“No,” Nyx interjects, her voice gentle, but firm. “Briseis said that she didn’t know what the two had discussed because of attorney-client privilege. She made an educated guess, based off of the fact that her father is a divorce lawyer. But lawyers receive all kinds of generalized training—he could be helping with an entirely unrelated matter.”

He supposes that that’s true, but… “I don’t know what else he would have to talk to a lawyer about.”

“Do either of you have living wills?” She asks. Achilles shakes his head—it’s not something that they had ever thought that they needed. “You have two young children, don’t you? He may just want to make sure you have something in place for them, just in case.”

“I suppose that that’s true.” It’s something to think about, nonetheless. He rubs his leg, before propping it up on the makeshift ottoman that Zagreus had made for him the other day.

“Just remember, that man loves you more than life itself—second only to those darling children of yours. It won’t be easy, but… if you remember that, everything else will fall into place.”

* * *

Patroclus makes several efforts to reach out to him throughout the course of the day. While Achilles _does_ respond to him, he never gives him more than absolutely necessary to prove that he is still alive and well. He knows that they need to have a serious talk, but he’s not in the right frame of mind to have that conversation now. Even though Patroclus was technically the one to mention that all of this had started because he’d taken off his wedding ring, Achilles cannot help but feel like giving voice to that fact will make all of it… _real_.

He has one dark moment where he thinks about calling his mother. He knows that the conversation isn’t going to go well (if she even bothers to answer the phone, she’ll have nothing nice to say about what’s become of his life). Come to think of it, had he even told her that he’d gotten shot? He rubs his leg, considering. If he didn’t think it would start a massive fight, it might be nice to tell her about the family. It might also be nice to have somewhere to go, in case something happened between him and Patroclus… not that anything was going to happen.

Nyx makes her way over to the front desk, “I never knew that you had so many people in and out of here in a day.” She says, “I suppose I stay cooped up in my little corner of the strip mall too often.”

“It’s a little overwhelming at times, I’ll admit. But my therapist says that it’s important to put myself out there and engage with people as often as I can.” Achilles shrugs, “Some days are harder than others, but Zagreus definitely helps with that. People are drawn to him like moths to a flame.”

Nyx cocks her head to the side, “You know, I could say the same thing about you.”

Achilles frowns, “I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

“You know… it’s easy to see why Patroclus was drawn to you in the first place. You have a way of speaking… it inspires people.” Nyx says, “Even when something is clearly bothering you, you still find a way to push past your own pain to help someone else in need. That’s the mark of a _truly_ good person.”

Achilles considers her words for a moment, before replying, “I… don’t know if that’s necessarily true. I wasn’t able to be there for Patroclus when he needed me—”

Nyx shakes her head, “No, I think that that was because Patroclus was part of what was causing you such distress—even if his role in it was unintentional. But… just look at what you’re doing for Zagreus.”

He supposes that she has a point, there. He didn’t think that he was the most qualified to be delivering romantic advice (especially not now, what with his husband possibly leaving him), but he seems to be helping Zagreus to navigate the early fumblings of his relationship with Thanatos, so… He likes to think that he might still be able to help people, even if he cannot serve in the capacity of a soldier any longer. Even if it’s just one person, then maybe he still has a purpose. Maybe his injury didn’t take _everything_ away from him…

Nyx is not the first person who has told him that he has… what’s the word for it… _charisma_. He’s always had a way with words, which has made people keen to follow him. He’d never actually wanted to be a leader, and he didn’t think that he was particularly _good_ at leading others (though he _had_ saved all of the men that’d been on the mission with him that fateful day, despite it nearly costing him his life—he’d never thought that getting shot in the heel could be near-lethal, until he’d been informed exactly how many different arteries there are in the foot (and the leg, in general)). One minute he’d been shot, the next, he’d woken up in the hospital, in the midst of receiving his third blood transfusion… the doctor had told him that he was going home, and that he was lucky to be alive.

They hadn’t mentioned the fact that he may never be able to use the leg again until he arrived back in the states.

“Come to think of it, I should probably check on Zagreus…” You know, just to make sure that nothing else had happened with Thanatos. He doesn’t know much about medicine, but he _does_ know when to advise someone to seek medical treatment, and that’s a step in the right direction.

“ _And_ your husband?” Nyx presses, ever so gently.

Achilles sighs, staring at his blank phone screen for a moment. Then, he steels his resolve, “And Patroclus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're so inclined, the first two chapters of the Charmes Christmas fic have been posted! Come and give your Scroogey boatman some love <3


	13. Deidamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG it's been forever since I updated I'm so sorry! Thank you for patiently waiting for this update, I hope you enjoy it <3

Achilles has no intention of calling Patroclus.

Now, to be fair, that doesn’t mean that he’d lied. He just hadn’t told Nyx the entire truth. It’s an admittedly small difference, but an important one all the same. He has, technically, been checking in with Patroclus ever since he’d left the night before. Patroclus knows that he is alive and (mostly) well. Achilles doesn’t know if he’s ready to commit to more. He still doesn’t know how he feels about the situation with Briseis. Certainly, there’s a part of him that wants to believe that Patroclus was being truthful when he said that there was a perfectly logical explanation for his missing ring. But there is another part that recognizes that that ring was buried _deep_ in the confines of the drawer. That sort of thing doesn’t just happen, not unless you go around slamming drawers or frequently reshuffle their contents…

The worst part is that he _knows_ he’s over-analyzing the situation. If Patroclus _says_ that there is a perfectly logical explanation, than there _is_ a perfectly logical explanation. He ought to at least hear him out before deciding whether or not to believe him… And Nyx had valid points, as well. Even if he _had_ been talking with Briseis’ father, that didn’t necessarily mean that he was looking to file for divorce. Even without talking to Nyx, Achilles could reason that Patroclus would _never_ blindside him with something like that. Patroclus was a talker. It didn’t matter how big, or small, the issue, or even if the only person around to talk to was himself—Pat _talked_ about an issue until he knew, definitively, that that was the best course of action to take. He had no reason to believe that _this_ would be different.

But still… Achilles doesn’t know if _he’s_ ready to talk about it. Everything still feels so _raw_ (which makes sense, in hindsight, considering that less than a day had passed between then and now). He’s been without pain medication, and his antidepressants and antianxiety medication, for nearing eighteen hours, now. He feels the lack of pain medicine acutely. The mental health medication, on the other hand… he knows that it will take a few days to leave his system completely, but he’d been questioning it’s effectiveness for some time (it was just… incredibly difficult to admit that he needed more help than he was already getting—that one, single bullet had taken _so much_ from him, and it just _kept on taking_ , and _taking_ … he didn’t know how much he had left to give).

He turns to Nyx, then. “I was wondering if I might impose on you for just one more thing.” He doesn’t wait for her to insist that he’s not imposing, continuing right along with, “I will talk to Patroclus, but… I don’t know that I’m ready to go back home tonight. And when I left, well…”

Nyx’s dark eyes widen in understanding, “Say no more. If I head out now, I can be back before it’s time for you to close up shop for the evening.” Achilles lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, “Just let me know what it is that you need.” Nyx was a good woman. It makes Achilles wish there were more he and Pat could do for her.

He keeps a list of his medications in the bottom drawer of the desk, just in case. He turns this over to her now. “Briseis should be there with the kids, but she won’t give you any trouble.” Achilles says, “The pills are in the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom—first door on the left.”

Nyx nods, committing all of this to memory. Then, “Alright.” She grabs her bag from behind the front desk and begins rummaging for her car keys, “Tell Zagreus that I hope Thanatos isn’t being _too_ troublesome of a patient…”

Achilles chuckles good-naturedly. It sounds a little hollow. “I’m sure that everything is fine. The lad would’ve called by now if something bad had happened.” Or if Thanatos had kicked him to the curb for being too overbearing.

“I suppose that’s true…” Nyx doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Achilles can understand. If something of the sort had happened to Pyrrhus and he’d had to hear about it through the grapevine, he’d be upset, too. “If you need anything while I’m gone, Orpheus and Eurydice are still next door. Their last voice lesson is at five o’clock, so—”

Achilles’ smile grows a little tight around the corners, “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Nyx… doesn’t seem entirely convinced. But, not wanting to push the matter further, she snatches up her keys and heads out to the parking lot. Achilles watches her until her car is little more than a black dot fading into the distance… and then allows his shoulders to slump. Much as he loves Nyx, being around people for extended periods of time can be so _draining_. Nyx certainly isn’t as high-energy as the lad, and he wouldn’t want to attempt to explain his mindset (read: stumble over his words as he becomes increasingly frustrated with himself, only to end up projecting that anger onto her and potentially ruining an otherwise lovely friendship) and risk her misunderstanding and assuming the worst. He just… wants her around… and doesn’t, all at once. Does that make sense? Probably not.

He stares at the three new text messages that he has from Patroclus for a moment… before unlocking his phone and dialing Zagreus’ number. The lad picks up on the third ring, sounding a little tired and out of breath, _“Is everything alright, Achilles, sir? Do you need me to come into work—?”_

“No, no. Nothing like that, lad.” Achilles shakes his head, “I just wanted to call and see how the two of you were doing. Do you need anything? Food, toiletries, medicine…?”

 _“That’s truly very kind of you, sir, but I think we’re okay.”_ That’s good, because Achilles doesn’t think that he’s in any condition to be driving. Not without his pain medication, at least. _“Thanatos is sleeping—finally. It’s… well, to tell you the truth, it’s a bit eerie, watching him sleep. So, I’ve been out in the living room… reading.”_

Achilles furrows his brows, “What do you mean, eerie?”

Zagreus chuckles a little, _“Well… half of the time, Than doesn’t look like he’s breathing. The other half, he’s in a sleep so light he’ll wake up if you so much as breathe the wrong way in his direction.”_

He nods sagely, “I take it you’ve been interrupting his beauty rest, then.”

_“Something like that, yeah. Than’s never really been one for being touched. He was really cuddly for the first little while—I think the opioids the hospital prescribed him caused him to have some nasty hot flashes, which really freaked him out. After he calmed down, though… I think I was just annoying him.”_

Achilles’ heart wrenches as the lad’s laugh turns a little self-deprecating. There is so much room in that heart of his, and it is so easily broken. “Look… if Thanatos is anything like me, it’s not that _you’re_ annoying him. It’s more like… the entire _situation_ is annoying him, and it’s completely out of his power to _fix_ it. You’re the easiest target for his ire. That doesn’t make it right, or fair—”

 _“I… think I understand.”_ Zagreus concedes, his voice soft. _“I’m going to continue to be here for him, regardless. Before we were… whatever we are, we were best friends, and nothing will change that. I won’t let him suffer alone.”_

“You’re a good lad.”

As he talks with Zagreus, he is forced to remember what _else_ had happened that afternoon. Patroclus had lost a patient on the table, and had been attacked by the young mother in the waiting room. He’d been so upset that he couldn’t even bring himself to speak… and all Achilles could focus on was the fact that his wedding ring wasn’t on his finger, as it was supposed to be. What kind of husband _was_ he? He listens to Zagreus talk for a little while longer, and imparts what wisdom he can—though it is admittedly growing rather difficult to think, what with the dark cloud descending upon his mind. He ends the call rather abruptly, after a hurried goodbye, and tosses the phone down on the desk so hard that he’s certain the screen must’ve cracked.

Even if he wanted to call Patroclus, he’s certainly in no condition to do it now. If, by some miracle, Patroclus weren’t already worried about him, he certainly would be once he heard the tremor in Achilles’ voice and the telltale hitch in his breath. He inhales shakily, reminding himself that he has to hold it together just a little while longer. Once the gym is closed, and Nyx returns with his medication, he can lock himself away in the office downstairs and cry and scream all he likes. Right now, he has a business to run. Taking another, deeper breath, he reaches for his phone and flips it back over just in time to see another incoming text message from Patroclus. He lets the screen fade to black as he debates whether or not he ought to text him back… before ultimately deciding to turn to the computer.

He can do this. Just one more hour…

* * *

Patroclus had always liked Achilles’ hair long. Achilles had liked it that way, too—aside from the fact that it was an actual pain to maintain. He had just enough of a curl to turn his hair into a giant mess of knots if he wasn’t careful (and, let’s be honest here, when was Achilles ever known for being _careful_?). When they were younger, Patroclus would sit and lovingly comb out the tangles, careful to make sure that the brush didn’t snag on a knot and cause Achilles any unnecessary pain. It had been nice, once upon a time, to tuck himself in-between Patroclus’ thick thighs… to rest his back against his husband’s broad chest… to feel his calloused fingers wade through his hair… But that was then, and this… this is now.

He opens his switchblade, considering. Then, he takes a fistful of his hair and brings it right up to the curve of the blade, “Just a little bit. Just enough to ensure it doesn’t tangle…”

Blond hair pools at his feet, covering the white and blue tiles that line the bathroom floor. It’s not a little bit—it was never a little bit—in fact, it’s almost as short as it was when he was in the service. His scalp starts to burn from the constant tugging; a switchblade isn’t really meant to be a proper haircutting instrument, but he doesn’t have an actual pair of scissors in the office/utility closet. Weird, he knows, but he thinks that Zagreus accidentally walked off with them one day, and he’s never bothered to replace them. There aren’t many things that need to be cut in a gym office, after all. After another couple of minutes, he drops the switchblade into the sink and dares to look into the mirror for the first time. God, but he hopes that there aren’t any bald patches…

His hair is… very short. The cut is rather uneven, but it’s not as bad as it could be, considering he’d been hacking away at fistfuls of hair with a pocket-sized blade. And there appear to be no glaring bald patches… though there’s only so much he can see of the back of his head, so he’ll probably need the lad to confirm that for him when they see each other next. It’s… _novel_ to him, that he feels so much better for having cut his hair short. It’s like he’s regained a little piece of himself that he’d lost. A piece of him that he’d sacrificed on the battlefield.

But there’s another part of him… a smaller part, though it is there all the same, that wonders what Patroclus will think of it. Patroclus had always loved his long, flowing hair. And while it hadn’t had enough time to grow out to where it’d been when they were teens, it had still been fairly long. Would Patroclus still find this version of Achilles attractive?

Maybe he should’ve taken a step back to think this through a little bit more…

“Achilles, are you down there?” Achilles jumps, frantically reaching for his shirt like he has something to hide. He relaxes a little when he realizes that it’s only Nyx—the matronly woman had seem him shirtless before.

“I am.” He takes his cane from where it is hanging on the sink, and shuffles out to meet her at the bottom of the stairs. “I was just starting to get worried. I hope that Briseis didn’t give you any trouble—”

“No, she—Achilles, what happened to your hair?” Her tone is sharp. She must notice the way that it causes him to flinch, because she hurriedly amends, “It’s… It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just… what made you decide to cut it? And what on earth did you cut it with?”

He sighs, “I thought that… I don’t know, it might be nice to change it up a little, that’s all.” He grabs a towel from one of the shelves by the washer/dryer combo, before asking, “Are you planning to stick around for a bit? I was thinking about heading back up to the gym and getting a little exercise in—I could use a spotter.”

Nyx stares at his arms, clearly wondering how she is supposed to help him should he run into trouble. “Are… you certain that that’s the best idea? You haven’t had your pain medication in almost twenty-four hours…”

Achilles hums. His hands are shaking. “I’ve just… been noticing that I’ve been losing a lot of muscle mass since…” He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, _hard_. “One little workout won’t kill me, I promise. Besides, I don’t plan on using any of the machines that’ll put excess pressure on my leg.”

At first, Achilles is almost certain that Nyx is going to attempt to talk him out of it. But then, “I’m not sure how much good I’ll do you as a spotter. But… to be perfectly honest, I’d rather be here in case something were to go wrong, than have to find out tomorrow that you pushed yourself too hard and ended up in the hospital.”

He smiles—an honest smile, the first one in a long while. It’s sweet of her to be so worried, but he knows and respects his own limits. Of course, after so much time, there’s a good chance that those limits have changed… “Alright, then there’s no time to waste—”

Nyx presses one well-manicured finger into his left pectoral hard enough for Achilles to feel the slightest of burns, “Not so fast. I have one condition.”

He raises one eyebrow, “A condition?”

She hands him the bag. “Take your pain medication, first.”

She has a valid point. Even if he won’t be exercising his legs, the exercise machines aren’t exactly designed with the comfort of someone suffering from extensive nerve damage in mind. Hell, they weren’t exactly comfortable _before_ his injury. He roots around in the bag for his morphine, before dry swallowing one of the tiny white pills and depositing the rest onto the counter in the bathroom. It’s far too late for him to be taking his antidepressant and antianxiety medication, though allowing himself to fall one day behind on his regimen won’t be the end of the world.

Nyx follows him upstairs, the older woman seemingly lost in her own thoughts. He wonders if she’s had a chance to talk to Thanatos (but if his reaction to the pain medication is as bad as Zagreus is making it out to be, then he decides that the odds are more than a little bit not good). He hasn’t given the machines their final wipe down for the night, having been preparing for this moment since closing. It’ll be good, he thinks, to be able to focus on something other than the gaping hole in his chest, that’d been growing steadily larger ever since he’d found the ring sitting in Patroclus’ bedside table drawer. He selects the horizontal bench press first, if only because it has a seat, allowing him the chance to take a bit of pressure off of his aching leg…

He sets the weights to seventy-five. It might be a bit advantageous, but he has to start somewhere.

Nyx watches as he settles himself down to begin working out. He’s struggling through the first set of fifteen reps when she finally asks, “So, I take it that you have no plans to try and talk things out with Patroclus tonight.”

There is no judgment in her tone, but Achilles feels judged nonetheless. “We talked a little, after you left. Nothing substantial, but he knows that I’m alive.” Perhaps he should’ve thought twice before lying to the woman that’d just been in his house not twenty minutes before… “I just… think it’s better if I have a chance to… cool down a bit.”

Nyx raises one delicate brow, “Really? That’s funny, because when I was at your house, dear Patroclus was absolutely _beside_ himself with worry. He said that he hadn’t heard from you in _hours_.”

His first set completed, Achilles gently lets the weights rest. There’s always that one asshole that drops them at the end of his set and ultimately breaks the machine… “Oh? Was he?”

“Don’t be coy with me, Achilles. I know that we may not be the best of friends, but I never expected that you would lie to my face.” Disappointment curls around her every word. It makes Achilles’ skin crawl. “That’s something that a _child_ would do, when they’re trying to escape punishment. I’m only trying to help you.”

“I know that…” Achilles breathes, scarcely loud enough for her to hear. “I do… I know that.”

“That man adores you. Even if you’re not ready to face him… the least you can do is let him know that you’re still alive.” Nyx is holding something tight in her hand. It’s… his phone? But when had she…?

“You want me to text him.” It’s not a question. He’s not expecting her to answer, but she does—

“He asked about you, while I was there. I couldn’t honestly say that I’d come for any other purpose, considering I was walking out of the house with your medication.” Nyx sighs, “He’s not asking for much. He just wants to know that you’re okay. It’s really not a lot to ask for.”

Achilles takes the phone, his face burning with shame. He’s beginning to regret asking Nyx to stay, though a part of him recognizes that if he hadn’t, this uncomfortably conversation would’ve come much sooner in the night. He supposes that her little conversation with Patroclus was what had kept her so long, considering that she’d been so certain that she’d be back at or around the time that he closed the gym for the night… Achilles cannot meet her eyes as he takes the phone from her hand, unlocking it with the press of a finger and a quick entry of Pyrrhus’ birthday. It doesn’t take long for him to locate the last text he received from Patroclus, and, just a little higher up, the last text _he’d_ sent Patroclus in turn… Fuck, it really _had_ been several hours…

He makes a show of contemplating what to say, before discreetly moving off of Patroclus’ screen and selecting another number at random. The name attached comes as a bit of a surprise. Deidamia. It had been an eternity since they’d last talked—she’d been one of the witnesses at their impromptu wedding, and had subsequently fallen off the radar. If he remembered correctly, she’d always had a little bit of a crush on him, but had never acted on it, content to see him and Patroclus happily in love. He wonders if this is still even her number.

From: Child of the Sun :sunny:  
Hey, it’s me. Listen, I know it’s been awhile since we’ve talked but… I’m going to pin my location. If you want to come by and chat, I’ll leave the door open.  
Sent at 9:02PM

*Child of the Sun has pinned their location.*

He shows the screen to Nyx, careful to keep his finger over the recipient. If Nyx wonders about the absolute lack of conversation history between him and his husband, she doesn’t ask. “There. Is that better?”

Nyx smiles then, and it helps to ease the tight knot in his stomach, if only a little. “Yes. Now, do you intend to finish your workout, or was that single set enough to satisfy your newfound workout craze?”

* * *

Nyx stays with him until well after eleven o’clock, spotting him on the various machines and then, afterwards, helping him to clean them. Achilles finds that he is sore, but not unbearably so. Although he kept his word that he wouldn’t try anything with his leg, he has a feeling that he’s going to regret even the slight strain that he placed on it in the morning. Oh well…

It’s sometime after Nyx leaves that he hears a knock on the glass doors. He frowns, turning away from the YouTube video he’d only been half-watching to see who could be calling at this hour. His eyes widen when he sees Deidamia. Yes, it had been almost eighteen years since he’d last seen her… and no, she hadn’t changed in the slightest. Her wild black curls were piled high atop her head in the messiest bun he had ever seen, her normally pale face sun-kissed and spotted with freckles… she was wearing a pair of thick-rimmed, blood red glasses, and a little red dress to match. Just looking at her, it was hard to believe that she was pushing thirty-seven. She very well could have been the girl that he’d almost…

She stares up at him with her big, gold-flecked eyes. He’d forgotten that she was nearly a head shorter than him… “Imagine my surprise when I receive a text from _the_ Achilles Pelides, asking me to come meet him—in a _gym_ , of all places—in some tiny little town I’d never even heard of.”

How is he meant to tell her that he’d never intended to contact her at all? That he’d only texted her to get out of texting his husband? The answer: he’s not. “Yes, well… it’s certainly not _the_ Achilles Pelides. Just Achilles will do.”

“And humble, too? Are you sure that I’m talking to the right man?” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Achilles doesn’t rise to the bait, “As sure as I’ll ever be. Achilles Pelides is a heroes name. Throw all your laud onto _his_ unshakeable shoulders.” He plops himself back down onto his seat, pausing his video. “I… I’m just Achilles, and I’d prefer it if that’s how you called me.”

Deidamia’s pretty eyes widen a bit, “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Achilles doesn’t bother to grace that with an answer, “Wow… you certainly _have_ changed.”

“Why did you come, Dei?” He thinks that he knows why. And if he’s right… he ought to send her packing, now.

She cocks her head to the side. She’s wearing a pair of stark white sneaker boots, with wide heels that make _his_ heel ache just to look at them. “I suppose I wanted to know why, after almost twenty years, you suddenly decided that there was something that we needed to talk about.”

Achilles swallows hard. He really ought to tell her that that text was meant for someone else. “Dei, I…”

“Unless you’d really prefer it if I leave, _Achilles_.” Why is she saying his name like that? Before he is even fully cognizant of what is happening, he’s logging off of the computer and reaching for his cane.

“Come on. We can chat in my office, downstairs.”


	14. A Misunderstanding Weeks in the Making

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Attempted Sexual Assault (Non-Graphic), Ableism, Unintentional AND Intentional Victim Blaming, Disassociative Episodes, and a Depressive Crisis. The tags have been updated accordingly. Please proceed with caution.

“So…” Dei traces one well-manicured finger over the picture of Patroclus that Achilles has attached to the side of his computer. It is the same picture that the lad had noticed earlier in the week. “I’m assuming that you and Patroclus are still married, then.”

“Mhmm,” Achilles hums. He takes a seat in the very corner of the worn-out couch that’d been doubling as his bed, and hefts his aching leg up onto the cushions. “It’ll be our nineteenth anniversary at the end of the month.”

She arches a brow, “Oh? How… _lovely_.” He doesn’t miss the note of condescension in her voice, but chooses not to comment on it for now. “And these are your children? The boy looks just like you, right down to the little furrow between his brows.” Her lips stretch into a thin, ruby red smile.

“You think so? Honestly, I think he’s starting to look more like Briseis. I don’t think I ever had quite so much red in my hair.” He muses. The picture to which Deidamia is referring is old, taken mere hours after Amaltheia had been born. Patroclus had sent it to him days before he’d been shot.

“Briseis was your surrogate?” Dei looks between Achilles and the photo again, before deciding, “No—I definitely think he takes more after you.” She shrugs, “Maybe it’s the eyes.”

“They are a rather distinctive color, aren’t they?” He’s never seen another pair quite like them, save for his own.

“They’re beautiful.” Achilles shifts a little, uncomfortable with the sudden intensity of Dei’s gaze upon him.

Achilles finds himself at a loss for how to proceed. He and Deidamia used to be close; they had never been the absolute _best_ of friends, but he used to be able to hold a full conversation with her without being ever conscious of the ticking of the clock in the corner of the room. Deidamia seems more than content to entertain herself with the pictures he has scattered around his desk. He doesn’t remember when most of the photos had been taken, and many are in such horrid shape that he cannot even begin to _attempt_ to identify the faces of those that are in them, but Deidamia seems to be having an easy enough time locating herself. There’s one picture in particular that seems to have caught her attention, and she tears it off of the side of the computer with an almost _feral_ grin.

“Do you remember this?” She asks. The picture is so faded, he’s amazed she can see _anything_. “This was taken at our senior prom! Remember, when we—” Ah, yes. Achilles _does_ remember that. Perhaps not with the same glee as Deidamia, but—“Oh, you looked so _handsome_ in your tux!”

“Did I…?” It’s been so long since he’s worn anything other than sweatpants and loose fitting t-shirts (or, of course, his military uniform) that he finds this somewhat difficult to believe.

“And you were _such_ a wonderful dancer!” She presses the photo to her modest bosom, a wistful look on her face.

Achilles, who is almost certain that he had two left feet, is thoroughly unimpressed. “If the picture means so much to you, you’re free to take it. I certainly don’t need it cluttering up my desk.”

Dei’s eye twitches, as her full lower lip juts out into a pout. “Aww, don’t say that, Achilles! Prom was so much _fun_!”

For her, perhaps, although he doubts it. Patroclus had broken his leg the month before, and though he was due to have the cast taken off in time, he didn’t think that the leg would be strong enough for a night of dancing. And since the idea of spending the entirety of prom sitting at their table, while they watched their friends have fun, sounded like a complete and total bore—he’d decided to sit it out. Achilles would have stayed home with him, had Deidamia’s boyfriend not dumped her two days before. She’d been absolutely _devastated_ , and Patroclus had conceded that he ought to take her as a friend. The night had been… _fun_ , though Deidamia had spent the bulk of it clinging to him like an extra limb. She seemed worried that he’d try to run if she took her eyes off of him for even a moment…

“So,” she plops herself down on the couch alongside him, dangerously close to his injured foot. He flinches, situating himself that much deeper in the corner of the couch, “Tell me, what _was_ that you wanted to talk about?”

Achilles swallows hard. All that time, and he couldn’t think of _one_ thing to talk to her about. “Um, well… I heard that you got married.” That seems to be a safe enough topic, considering they’d just been talking about his own marriage. There is a distinct lack of ring on her finger, but that doesn’t mean anything—

“Ah, yes…” She smiles a little wistfully. “Three times, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, I never quite managed to find ‘the one’.” Achilles winces, but doesn’t comment. “You’re incredibly lucky, you know—to have a husband who loves you so unconditionally. You know…” Dei starts, then shakes her head, “No, I shouldn’t say that.”

 _This_ piques Achilles’ interest, “What? Come on, you can’t just leave me hanging like that—”

Deidamia cocks her head to the side, a few strands of inky black hair falling from her messy bun. “I shouldn’t be saying this, but… I’m surprised that you let Briseis be your surrogate, all things considered.”

Achilles furrows his brows, “Why? She’s perfectly healthy. And she loves kids.”

“She also loves your husband.” Dei idly curls a strand of hair around her finger. Achilles’ eyes widen, just a little. “Oh, she used to worship the ground that Pat walked on, before you finally made your move and the two of you became official. And even then… don’t tell me you never noticed the dopey look on her face in all of the pictures.”

He hadn’t. Though that was mostly due to the fact that he never paid all that much attention to the pictures that he was in, even before… Achilles doesn’t notice that she’s moved a little bit closer. “Even so, she would never—”

Dei interrupts with a soft, “So tell me, Achilles… why does it look like you’re living out of your gym?”

He… doesn’t really want to talk about that. He offers her a cursory, “Pat and I are having some… _difficulties_.”

“Difficulties?” She repeats, as though the word is foreign to her. And then, “…I see you’re not wearing your ring.”

He moves his hand to his lap, hiding it from her line of sight. “I, um… I haven’t been. Not since…” He inclines his head toward his wounded leg. Dei slides a little bit closer—if he were to flex his foot, he’d be able to touch her with the very tip of his big toe. “I don’t deserve to wear it anymore.”

Patroclus hadn’t wanted him to leave on his last tour. Much as Achilles loved managing the gym, he’d been itching to return to active duty for some time. Admittedly, leaving just after Briseis found out that she was pregnant with Amaltheia was not the best… but Achilles had assured Patroclus that he would be as careful as he could be, that once he returned, he’d retire from active duty and settle down. He’d been shot just three days before the end of his nine month tour, and had woken up in a hospital back in the states to Patroclus sobbing at his bedside, with a days’ old infant in one of those clear bassinets that they have in the hospital nursery. He was too deep in his opioid-induced haze to truly understand what was happening right then, but it all became clear soon enough…

They cut him open and pieced his heel back together—but his heel was much like an old puzzle, that through wear and tear had several pieces that didn’t quite fit together like they should. His nerves had become entrapped in the little crevices that never quite healed right, causing unspeakable pain. Once the doctors had finished duct taping him back together, they’d taught him how to walk with a cane… He was alive, though most days he didn’t truly feel like the hell he endured should be considered _living_. But he was most certainly not _whole_. And he felt this, acutely, every time he attempted to put any real pressure on his heel… It may have appeared as though he had returned to Patroclus in one piece, but—

Achilles starts when he feels a delicate hand on his shin. The sudden movement causes him to press his heel down into the couch cushion, which hurts like _hell_. “I-Is there a… _reason_ why you’re touching me?” He asks.

“Oh…” Dei doesn’t move her hand, “Is that bothering you? I could always move it…”

He doesn’t exactly _mind_ it, per se. It’s more that… he doesn’t like _anyone_ touching that leg (and that includes Pat, most days). “I’d… actually prefer if you didn’t. That leg is really sensitive, and I’ve missed two doses of my pain medication.” He withdraws from her a little. She follows.

Her delicate hand doesn’t leave Achilles’ leg as she continues, “Why did you really call me here, Achilles? Surely, it was to do more than have a friendly face to commiserate with…” She walks her fingers up the long line of Achilles’ shin, to curl her hand around his knee. “Is it because—”

Achilles reaches for her hand, gently plucking it off of his knee. “I think… that you and I have very different ideas about what’s going on here, D-Dei…” His eyes widen as she tangles their fingers together.

“Don’t you?” She slithers upward, settling herself down atop his lap. Achilles stares at her, wide-eyed, “We all know that there are only _so many_ reasons you would just decide to text me, out of the blue…”

Achilles’ left eye twitches, “Actually, about that—” He reaches for her waist, intent to gently, but firmly, push her off.

“You said it yourself. Your relationship with Patroclus is hanging on by a thread.” She smiles, “It’s really only a matter of time until Briseis smells the blood in the water and makes a move on your man. And then, where will that leave you? Depressed, crippled, and _alone_.” Achilles flinches.

He narrows his eyes up at her, “I’d almost forgotten how much of an epic _bitch_ you could be.”

“Aww… are you upset because I told you the truth? Well, then… let me give you _another_ little piece of advice.” She licks her lips, “It’s not your heel that’s crippling you. It’s the fear that you don’t mean _shit_ now that you can’t do the one thing you were ever good at.” Her smile is blindingly bright. It makes his stomach ache.

Tears blur Achilles’ vision as he hisses, “…I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Dei smiles down at him, “I don’t think so.” She clicks her tongue, “And… I don’t believe that you’re in any position to be _making_ me leave, either.” She glances knowingly at his injured leg, pinned solidly beneath her weight.

Achilles swallows hard. Unfortunately, there is more than a modicum of truth to her words. She’d seen him walking with the cane, had listened to his story about how he had sustained the wounds and how serious they were… If she didn’t want him to move, he wouldn’t be moving. For several tense moments, they simply stare at one another. And then he hears the door to the office open. He hadn’t bothered to lock the doors to the gym before escorting Deidamia downstairs, having not expected her to stay as long as she had. He’s, admittedly, a little unnerved by the fact that someone had just walked right in, until he sees that that someone is Patroclus—and that just his presence causes Deidamia to scramble off of his lap as if it had spontaneously caught fire.

He doesn’t think that he’s ever been so thankful to see Patroclus in his life. It doesn’t appear as though the feeling is mutual, however. “So, this is the reason that you haven’t been texting me back.” His voice is flat, but Achilles can see the tears brewing in the corners of his eyes. “Well… I’m glad to know that you’re still alive.”

“Pat, I swear—this isn’t what it looks like.” Achilles realizes, belatedly, that that’s about the most cliché thing that could’ve come out of his mouth—and that it makes it look even more like that is _exactly_ what Patroclus just walked in on. “You have to believe me, I would never—”

“Is _this_ what you’ve been doing, all of those nights that you stayed late at the gym?” Patroclus asks. Achilles blinks; he doesn’t even know how to begin to refute an assumption that was so very, very wrong. He doesn’t realize that his hands have begun to shake, “And _you_ —you _knew_ that he was married, and yet—”

“I-I just came here, wanting to talk! I hadn’t heard from Achilles in so long—” Is she… _crying_? When _she_ was the one who _climbed on top of him_ and threatened—”Achilles was the one who reached out to _me_. I have the message here.”

There’s no denying that he sent her that message, but it was never with that intention, “Pat… Please, just _listen_ to me. Yes, I texted her and told her that I wanted to talk, but I picked her number out at random so that—”

He stops, suddenly, realizing that admitting to the fact that he hadn’t wanted to talk to Patroclus wouldn’t do him any favors right now… “So that _what_ , Achilles?” Tears are streaming down Patroclus’ cheeks. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away as he continues, “I was so worried that you could’ve fallen, or—or—”

“ _She_ was the one who came onto _me_!” He tries to stand, but he’s shaking so badly he can’t get the proper footing, and ends up falling back down onto the couch. His heel _aches_. “Please. _Please_ , you _have_ to believe me.”

“You know what? Maybe I _will_ take Theseus up on that date, after all.”

He tosses something down on the ground that Achilles is later able to identify as a bouquet of flowers. Had he… He’d likely brought them as a peace offering, to make amends for… well, he hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but he was likely going to be the bigger person and take the fall for it, anyhow. And now… the plastic wrap around the flowers crinkles loudly as he crushes them underneath his boots storming back out of the office. It is only after he’s gone that Deidamia turns to him with a bright, and terribly hollow, smile, and excuses herself back to whatever hole she’d crawled out of. And Achilles is left to ponder what had just happened, his sea-glass colored eyes focused on the flowers that’d been trampled on the concrete floor.

He doesn’t move for the rest of the night.

* * *

“Achilles,” the next thing he sees is a hand, adorned with chipping black nail polish, waving back and forth in front of his face. “Achilles, love—I noticed that the door was unlocked. Please tell me that it hasn’t been that way all night.”

He furrows his brows, “It… what… what time is it?” It’s almost nine o’clock in the morning. Not quite time for the gym to be open, but well past time for Zagreus to be coming in—if he was coming in that day. “I… must’ve lost track of time. Give me a moment, I’ll be alright.”

He’s shaking, and he doesn’t know why. Nyx seems to notice, too, but when she moves to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, he shies away from her touch. That’s odd. He’s never been put-off by Nyx’s touch before. Taking a slow, deep breath, he turns to meet her wide-eyed stare—she’s focusing in on something on his collar. Pulling his shirt away from his chest, he tries to see the damage for himself—he catches the faintest hint of red, but isn’t able to see anything more distinctive than that. Is he bleeding? He feels around his chest for anything sore or tender, and comes up empty. Perhaps it’s a stain of some sort? He has the vaguest recollection of ruby red lipstick, but hasn’t the slightest as to why there would be lipstick on his shirt.

“Oh, Achilles… please tell me that you didn’t.” There’s so much disappointment in her voice, she’s beginning to sound like Achilles’ own mother. “You still love Patroclus, don’t you?”

Achilles frowns. Why is that even a question? Of course he still loves Pat! “Yes, with every fiber of my being. Why would you ever ask such a thing?” When Nyx doesn’t immediately answer, Achilles’ frown deepens. “Nyx, you’re not making any sense. The last thing I remember is Pat storming off after Dei climbed—”

After Deidamia had climbed into his lap and—

And that was it. But if Patroclus had been just a few minutes later, then… And he… he’d tried to _tell_ Patroclus what’d happened, but he’d kept stumbling over his words and spouting cliches that only served to make him look more guilty. He’d tried to tell him that he would _never_ , but Pat… Pat was already suspicious. Achilles had spent one too many late nights at the gym, after sending the lad on his way. He’d kept himself too closed off, despite Patroclus’ best efforts to reach out to him. _He couldn’t even be there for him when Patroclus lost a patient on the table_. If the shoe were on the other foot, would he believe _himself_? Or would he trample on the fresh-cut roses he’d brought for his lover as he stormed out of the building, just as Patroclus had done?

Achilles turns to Nyx, tears streaming down his tired face. “P-Pat thinks I cheated on him.”

Nyx must’ve ascertained from the way Achilles’ features had twisted that there was more to the story than meets the eye, because her features soften as she comes to sit beside him on the couch. She is careful to keep a comfortable distance between them as she asks, “Would you like to talk about it?”

Achilles sniffles, “Yes? No? I don’t know…” He’s breathing hard, and Nyx begins to coach him to back him down from the brink of hyperventilation. “I-I lied to you. I know I shouldn’t have, but I-I just w-wasn’t ready to face Pat. I texted someone else. An old friend from high school—o-or, I _thought_ she was a friend.”

“Okay…” Nyx nods. She doesn’t look pleased about the lie, but that is the least of her concerns at the moment.

“She came over to the gym a-and…” He stops there. Nyx waits for him to continue for some time. The tears continue to pour down his cheeks as he collects himself and continues shakily, “I wouldn’t… I only… I only wanted to _talk_ to her. I never t-thought s-she’d… She was supposed to be m-my friend.”

Nyx’s face pinches as she asks, “Did she _hurt_ you, Achilles?” Achilles stares at her for a moment, his entire body thrumming with anxious energy. Then, he shakes his head.

“Patroclus w-walked in before she…” He sucks in a deep breath, “And n-now he thinks t-that I…”

He wonders, idly, if there was any truth to what Deidamia had told him about Briseis and Patroclus. Could that be why she’d come out and told him that Patroclus had been speaking to a divorce lawyer? Could it be… that all of that had been less about attempting to fix their relationship, and more about trying to deepen the divide that’d already been forming between them? It hurts him to think of his friend like that—it hurts him to think of the woman that delivered both of their children like that, even more so. Even Achilles, in his fog-addled mind, can admit that the whole thing seems more than a little bit far-fetched. But then he remembers how Deidamia had pinned him down—a feat that never would’ve been possible before this debacle with his damned heal—and—

Depressed. Crippled. Alone.

Depressed. Crippled. Alone.

_Depressed. Crippled. Alone._

He’d made himself putty in her hands. He’d told her everything that she needed to know to ensure that he would be completely at her mercy. He’d thought that she was his _friend_ , and she’d taken advantage of that weakness to—He doesn’t even want to begin to think about what would’ve happened had Patroclus not come through the door when he had. If he hadn’t sat down on the couch… If he hadn’t asked her to come with him to the office downstairs… If he’d just texted Patroclus like he was supposed to… none of this would’ve happened. But perhaps, in a way… it was almost a blessing. So long as he continued to believe the lie about what happened here, he needn’t feel bad for leaving Achilles behind to pursue greener pastures.

If Achilles were a cheater, Patroclus wouldn’t have to worry about continually applying sealant to the seemingly never-ending cracks in his metaphorical cup.

If Achilles were a _victim_ , on the other hand…

“…We need to go to the police station.” Nyx says, softly, _firmly_. “I know that this is difficult, but you need to make a statement while all of this is still fresh in your mind.”

She reaches for Achilles’ hand. He lets her take it, although it seems like he’ll yank it back from her at any second. “Please, don’t tell Patroclus.” His voice is scarcely above a whisper as he allows the older woman to lead him out of the office. “I-I don’t want him to…”

“Achilles, darling… none of this is your fault, do you understand me? You texted her with… well, I can’t say that you had the best of intentions, but you certainly didn’t ask for any of this to happen.” Her tone brokers no room for argument. Achilles hears her, but the words don’t truly register.

“I want nothing more than for Patroclus to be happy.” He says. “Even if that means he spends the rest of his life thinking that I’m the scum of the earth. I just…” and then he squeezes her hand so tightly, he can feel the bones grinding against one another, just beneath the surface of the skin.

“Achilles…?” Nyx’s concern is practically tangible.

“I think…” He swallows hard, “I think I need you to drive me to the crisis center—now.”


	15. The Day from Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mental Health Crisis, References to an Attempted Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Cheating (a brief date cut short). The tags have been updated accordingly. Please proceed with caution!
> 
> ETA: I love that this fic has opened the door to so much discourse, and that everyone has such strong opinions about the fic, wherever said opinions may lie. I welcome everyone's opinions of the storyline, the characters, and the writing down in the comments below--it really makes my day to hear from all of you! But please, if you're going to leave a comment, be respectful of me and your fellow readers. We are all entitled to our own opinions, whatever they may be. 
> 
> Thank you, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter <3

The crisis center is a relatively new structure, added onto the rear of the hospital in 2015. Hera, the head crisis counselor, had petitioned to have it built after discovering that the nearest facility equipped to handle a mental health crisis was nearly an hour and a half drive from the center of town. The hospital, however, could be reached from any point in town in a little under fifteen minutes—twenty, at the height of rush hour. Nyx makes the drive from the strip mall to the hospital in a little under seven, breaking at least three different laws of the road in the process.

The other crisis counselor, Dr. Pythia, had attended school with the lad’s cousin, Apollo. They’d dated for a little less than six months, before Apollo had rediscovered his love of music and had become involved in the school’s world-renowned music program. It was there that he’d met Eumelia, his future wife. It was Achilles’ understanding that Zeus had been partial to Pythia, anxious to have another doctor in the family—Apollo’s choice to marry Eumelia, an elementary school music teacher, was seen as a personal slight. Achilles didn’t really understand the logic behind Zeus’ argument—and he didn’t _need_ to understand, since his interactions with Apollo and Eumelia were relatively few and far between. Even more so, with Zeus. Pythia, on the other hand…

Dr. Pythia is a conventional beauty, with hair the color of fresh wheat done up in an elegant and sophisticated French twist. Her eyes are a peculiar shade of green, just a few shades lighter than a prime sample of moldavite. Her face is soft, with a bit of fat in the cheeks, and a straight nose resting above lips that’re neither too plump nor too thin. All in all, she looks much the same as she did when Achilles was last here, squeezing Patroclus’ hand so tight he could feel the bones shifting beneath his feathery-soft skin. He hadn’t known at the time whether he was clinging to Patroclus from fear of what the doctor might say, or as a means of coping with the pain radiating from his newly repaired heel. He realizes now, as he stares blankly at the paperwork he’s meant to fill out, that he still doesn’t know.

Patroclus is not here to hold his hand. Not this time. And while Nyx had driven him to the hospital… he’d asked that she wait for him outside while he spoke with the counselor. Even if he could use the emotional support, he couldn’t justify asking her to come into the center with him. He had suspected that he was undermedicated for some time, but he hadn’t mentioned it to Patroclus… or his therapist… or _anyone_ , really. He’d thought… certainly, if it _was_ that bad, _someone_ would say _something_. Maybe he’d just been imagining how bad things had gotten—

But then… Nyx had shown up at the gym, and he’d realized that he’d lost almost _nine hours_ and that… that couldn’t happen again. Not when he had two small children at home that relied on him. Not when Patroclus still needs him… _if_ he even still needs him.

So, he fills out the forms, and he waits. He thinks about the birdhouse that Pyrrhus had made him, and how adorable Amaltheia had looked when he’d first laid eyes on her in the hospital. He wouldn’t say that he’s ‘ready’ when Dr. Pythia finally calls him back, but he’s determined. He’ll force the words out, even if he must choke on them first. He’ll lay everything bare before her, and he’ll ask for her help. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll be able to start to piece the shattered pieces of his cup back together. It won’t be perfect, but maybe he can hope for something close to whole.

If he cannot be the husband that Patroclus deserves, then he can at the very least try to be the father that his kids need. Patroclus may never forgive him for what he thinks happened in that office, and Achilles… well, Achilles is trying to make his peace with that. He reminds himself, firmly, that his perceived cheating provides Patroclus an out—

He took off his ring. He spoke to a divorce lawyer. He just needed that one, final push—

“Mr. Pelides?” Dr. Pythia motions to the couch opposite her, “Take a seat, if you would.”

* * *

“I think that you should close down the gym for a day or two.” Nyx says, as Achilles wrinkles the corners of his prescription. They’re on their way to the pharmacy to have Achilles’ new script filled. “I think it’ll be good for you, mentally and physically. At least until I’ve had a chance to go in and—”

Achilles’ eyes are focused on the doctor’s illegible script as he whispers, “Yeah, you’re… you’re probably right. It’s… nice to have something to take my mind off of things, but I think… I think being there will just make me feel worse.”

Nyx brings the car to a gentle stop, before activating her blinker. “Have you thought about where you’re going to stay?” He hadn’t, not really. Though, now that she mentions it, a hotel is likely his most promising option.

“A hotel, probably.” He’s exhausted—which would make sense, considering he hadn’t actually slept the night before. Even the simple act of stringing a handful of words together into a sentence is beginning to prove to be too much. “I have my credit cards, so I’m not really worried about the cost—”

“You could stay with us for a few days.” Nyx offers. Achilles’ eyes widen a little. “The triplets are off at college, so their room is available. It’s… admittedly a little cramped, what with three beds in there—but it’s actual mattresses in an air-conditioned room.” Achilles flinches a little. He knows that the conditions were less than ideal…

“It sounds like you’re making me an offer that I’d be a fool to refuse.” He cracks a small smile, and continues worrying the script in his hands. He really should stop before he accidentally tears it…

Nyx shakes her head. The car starts moving again, cutting the corner a little too sharply. “You misunderstand, Achilles. I may not be happy that you lied to me, but I will _never_ force you to do something you’re not comfortable with.” She says. “If you’d prefer to stay in a hotel, you’re more than welcome to do so. But you’re _not_ —”

“Staying in the gym?” He finishes for her, his voice weak. “No, I’m not. Not anymore.”

There is an unspeakable pain in Nyx’s eyes as she asks, for the hundredth time, “Are you sure that you don’t want me to reach out to Patroclus for you?” It sounds like she wants to say more. Instead, she bites her tongue.

“There’s no point.” Achilles says. “It’s not like he’ll believe anything that I have to say, anyway.”

“Why don’t you allow Patroclus the chance to make up his own mind about what he does and doesn’t believe?” Nyx sighs, “That’s what I _want_ to say, but… I understand where it is that you’re coming from, even if I don’t think that it’s right. So, I’ll hold my tongue, for now.” She says.

Achilles’ eyes widen a little, “Thank you, Nyx.” And then, a little quieter, “I… If it would really be alright, I think I… I think I would like to stay with you for a little while. It might be nice, to see a familiar face.”

After he’d been shot, the gym had become his refuge. Even if he could no longer serve, he could still oversee it’s day to day operation… and when he realized that there were some facets of the gym’s operation he could no longer handle alone, he hung a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window and, after nearly six weeks, received a single applicant: the lad. He’d worry that closing the gym indefinitely would put a hurting on the lad’s income, if he hadn’t already decided that he was going to continue to pay the lad while he was helping Thanatos to recover from his injury, regardless of whether he actually came into work. Even if Patroclus cut him off from their accounts, he still had the funds to do it… at least, for a little while.

And if not… well, there’s always his mother. Much as the idea of asking her for _anything_ , in _any_ capacity, absolutely _horrifies_ and _disgusts_ him… he’s also about ninety-nine percent certain that she’s just been waiting for him to come crawling back to her. Thetis had been so certain that Patroclus was bad for him, that Patroclus would end up hurting him somehow… it was almost ironic that, in the end, it was Achilles that had destroyed their relationship. Much like Icarus, he had flown too close to the sun… His wax wings had melted, causing him to plummet back down to Earth…

And that… that was just in reference to the lousy bullet that’d ruined his heel. That didn’t even _begin_ to factor in the six months he’d spent withdrawing into his own personal hell, watching his relationship with Patroclus deteriorate by the second—each attempt to reach out, to _connect_ , felt like he was putting his hand on the side of a screaming kettle to see if the metal was hot. They’d been together for _years_. All of this had been so _easy_ weeks, months, _years_ ago. So, why was it so hard for him _now_?

He began spending more time at the gym. It was easy to scrub down machines, to fold towels that were still warm from the dryer, to balance accounts… It was something he could do, whether or not he could still walk. And being a good husband, a good father… those, too, were things that weren’t reliant on his ability to walk.

He didn’t understand what made them so different. Maybe if he could just understand…

Nyx slides the script out of his hand. He looks up, to see that they’d pulled into the pharmacy drive-thru. Nyx handles everything, and after thanking the pharmacist, informs Achilles, “She said it’ll be about thirty minutes. Do you want to head to Starbucks? I’m sure they have something fruity and overpriced on the menu.”

“Don’t they always?” Nyx snorts. That is, indeed, true. He feels bad about taking up even more of her day than he already has, but a drink _does_ sound nice. “I thought that we were going to the police station next.”

She hums, “Well… to be honest, I don’t know how long that will take. And I want to make sure that you have your medicine as soon as possible.” It’d never occurred to him that it might be a particularly lengthy experience… though it does make sense, now that she mentions it. “Besides… I think you may be dehydrated.”

“It’s the meds.” Achilles replies automatically. This isn’t the first time he’s had issues with dehydration since he started taking his antidepressants. “They make it easy to become dehydrated. Especially in heat like this.”

“And you’ve been sleeping in an unairconditioned basement?” She raises one thin eyebrow.

“It… admittedly wasn’t the best plan.” He also wasn’t in the best state of mind when he came up with it. Not that his _current_ state of mind is much better… but the medicine will definitely help.

Nyx orders him a Trenta black tea, with a plethora of sweetener that Achilles has never heard of. She orders an iced Frappuccino for herself, with so many different ingredients that Achilles loses track after ‘caramel’. She also buys two ice cold water bottles, and shuts him down hard when he offers to pay. “It’s my treat.”

It reminds him so much of when he and Patroclus both rush to put their chip in the card reader before the other (and the one time Patroclus’ card snapped clean in half as a result), that he’s momentarily taken aback. “T-Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Achilles.” She says, pressing the plastic cup into his hand. “That’s what friends are for.” He takes a deep breath, considering the translucent liquid in the cup. The bitter cold emanating from the ice makes his hand ache. “Now, drink. I want that entire drink gone by the time we circle back to the pharmacy.”

Achilles’ eyes widen a little. That’s… _a lot_. Still, he knows that, if he _does_ actually get dehydrated, he’ll start having auditory and visual hallucinations. And after everything else he’s endured in the last twenty-four hours, he would like to avoid that, if at all possible. “Yes, ma’am.”

And so, he drinks.

* * *

The officer that takes his statement is a kindly woman in her mid-thirties, who bears a little bit too close of a resemblance to Deidamia for comfort. His cellphone becomes evidence, as does the shirt on his back—thankfully, during the time that Achilles was in speaking with the crisis counselor, Nyx had gone back to the gym to get him a change of clothes. By the time they’d finished talking, the officer has at least three pages worth of notes on their discussion, as well as a full-recording. She tells him that there’s a chance he’ll be asked to come back down to the station to identify his attacker. And even if the idea of returning to this place, of being forced to go face-to-face with Deidamia again (even if it is through one-way glass), horrifies him, he still nods—

As he sits back down in the car, he takes stock of his emotions for the first time since… well, the first time in recent memory. He’d thought that the prospect of putting Deidamia behind bars would make him feel better, but… locking her away didn’t change what she’d done to him. It didn’t give him back what she’d taken _from_ him.

Nyx moves to take his hand, nice and slow. Although he can see her coming from a mile off, he still jumps a little when her fingers brush over his, just so. He takes a moment to remind himself that this is Nyx. Nyx is his friend—the first person he’d told about Deidamia, the first person who’d _listened_. She wouldn’t hurt him.

But… hadn’t he thought that very same thing about Deidamia?

The ride to Nyx’s house is utterly silent. Nyx lives on the far side of town (technically, something like one-eighth of her property spilled over the border into the next town over, but that was neither here nor there), in a house that can only be described as a piece of art. What had started as a two bedroom, one bathroom house for her and her eldest, Charon, had gradually morphed into a five bedroom, three bathroom masterpiece. Each of the additions to the house have a different feel to them—the triplets’ bedroom is ensconced in white-washed brick, with thick lines of ivy twisting down the walls, while the twins’ bedroom (which had been repurposed into Hypnos and Megaera’s room) had dark wooden siding. Despite none of it matching, it somehow all seemed to _work_.

“Oh, and you don’t need to worry about Hypnos saying anything to Patroclus.” She says. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Hypnos and Patroclus worked at the same practice until then—”That boy is off in his own little world. It’ll take him a week to even notice that you’re here, at best.”

Achilles nods, his mind elsewhere as Nyx shepherds him inside the front door. The front hallway is lined with half-finished portraits, including one that stands out from the lot. “Is this… the piece that Patroclus commissioned?”

“Hmm?” Nyx turns, her brown eyes widening a little. “I’m so sorry. I’d… forgotten that I’d brought that home to work on.” When Achilles continues to stare at it, she confirms. “Yes, that’s Patroclus’ commission. He, um… Well, he’d realized that he didn’t actually have any pictures of you and Amaltheia together, so—”

“It’s… beautiful.” He breathes. You’d never be able to tell that Nyx hadn’t been working off of a photograph for him and Amaltheia. They looked so… _natural_. “Did he ever tell you… why he commissioned this?”

Nyx furrows her brows, “You mean, he didn’t talk to you about it?”

“We talked about it, once.” Achilles says. “My mind was… elsewhere at the time. But I remembered you mentioning the commission, and I was intrigued. He told me he didn’t want to talk about it, for fear of upsetting me.”

“Well, then maybe I shouldn’t…” she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, taking a chunk out of her immaculate black lipstick. It’s clear she doesn’t want to upset him further after an already trying day, but… this has been eating at him for days, and the odds of him ever finding out the truth from Patroclus _now_ are slim to none—

He decides to go with his gut, “Is it… for my mother.”

Nyx is silent for a long moment, before the dam inevitably breaks. “It… Yes, it is. Listen, I… I don’t have all of the details, but I know what it’s like to be estranged from your parent.” She runs her fingers through her hair, destroying her already incredibly messy bun. “He said that he wanted to show her just a glimpse of how happy you were, so…”

“How… happy?” Her word choice is rather… curious, considering he wouldn’t say that he’s felt happy since that bullet impaled his foot. “When did he commission this?”

“It’s… been awhile. At least a couple of months. I’ve had a massive backlog in commissions, otherwise I would’ve had it finished by now.” She says. “Why? What’s the matter…?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. He’s not quite used to not feeling his hair whip back and forth when he does so—

It’s just that… the reason that Patroclus didn’t have any pictures of Achilles and Amaltheia together was that Achilles spent the first weeks of Amaltheia’s life in the hospital. And after he’d been released, he’d become a master of sneakily excusing himself from photographs. The only explanation for _this_ was that Patroclus had given Nyx a photo of Achilles and Pyrrhus together, and asked her to find a way to include Amaltheia. That’s not to say that Nyx hadn’t done a spectacular job, because she _had_. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that the picture that this was based off of had _always_ included both children. It’s just… interesting. The fact that Patroclus wanted to send it to his mother, even more so.

It’s not like he had anything to prove to her. And it’s not like one little portrait would change her mind about him.

A portrait that he was _absent_ from, interestingly enough…

“Would you like something to eat?” Nyx asks. He’s about to tell her that he’s not hungry, when he remembers that the last time he ate was breakfast the day before—and that’d been some Dunkin’ Donuts he’d ordered through GrubHub. It hadn’t been anything particularly substantial—or healthy.

“A sandwich, maybe?” He knows that she’s offering, but he still feels bad about imposing. “I… I really don’t think that I can keep too much down right now.”

“Half a sandwich, then. We’ll put the rest of it in the fridge for you to eat later.” She fixes him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sans crust. He wonders, absently, which one of her children doesn’t like crusts on their sandwiches…

He takes a deep breath, “And an apple, too? If you have one.” He tacks on, hurriedly. He is a guest in her house, after all, and the last thing he wants is for her to think that he’s being rude.

“I just so happen to have one here…” Nyx smiles, pulling a red delicious apple from a basket of produce on her island counter. She slices and cores it, and drizzles the individual pieces with a little bit of honey. Achilles has never had an apple served to him like that before… but he finds that he’s eager to try it.

It’s the first thing he tries when she hands him his plate a moment later. The honey compliments the subtle tang of the fruit, adding a bit more substance without being overwhelming (he’d tried apple slices and peanut butter, once—it hadn’t gone over well). “Thank you. For this and… well, for everything.”

She shakes her head, “I already told you, Achilles. That’s what friends are for.” Pushing the plate a little closer to him, she continues, “Now… after you’ve had your fill, I’m going to head over to the gym and gather up the rest of your stuff, okay? You’ll have the house to yourself for a bit—Meg and Hypnos won’t be back until much later.”

Achilles hates the way that his body tenses at the thought of being left alone, even if it’s just for the amount of time it takes for Nyx to drive to the gym and back. Even so, he steels his resolve. “Okay.”

If she notices the way that he starts to eat slower, she is merciful, and doesn’t mention it.

* * *

Achilles sprawls himself out on the couch and turns on the television. After a couple of minutes’ worth of channel-surfing, he settles on one of the cheesy romantic comedies that Patroclus so adores. The movie is already about halfway over, but the plot never really matters in this sort of film, anyway. It’s all so _formulaic_. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl back. Sure, different stories like to tweak the key plot points a bit, but all in all, every romantic comedy is essentially the same, reproduced with different faces and different names. Pulling the blanket off of the back of the couch (he thinks he remembers Nyx mentioning that one—or all—of the triplets liked to knit) and hunkers down to watch the last half of the film.

He’s not sure when he falls asleep, but he wakes to the sound of voices coming from Nyx’s front hallway. At first, he thinks that it’s Meg and Hypnos home early from work… but then he realizes that he _recognizes_ one of the voices. It’s far too deep to belong to Hypnos, but it is also laden with a sense of… panic? Distress?

“I cannot _believe_ that you went out with that scumbag.” Nyx hisses. It’s clear that she’s trying to keep her voice down, since she can hear the television playing in the living room.

“I… There’s nothing that I can say that’ll make that even _remotely_ better, I know. But I left him to settle an almost four-hundred dollar bill, so…” there’s a pause, before he adds, “Theseus has _expensive_ taste in wine.”

“Please tell me that you weren’t planning to—”

“Planning to _what_? Sleep with _my boss_? Never!” Despite the force behind Patroclus’ denial, Achilles’ chest is painfully tight. Yes, he’d heard his threat loud and clear, but he’d never actually thought he would go through with it. And certainly not so soon. “I was heartbroken, not vindictive. Never vindictive.”

“Still…” Nyx takes a deep breath, “You need to come clean about it. _After_ you apologize for not listening to him in the first place.” Patroclus does not bend. He’s a braver man than most.

“I never intended to try and hide it from him.” There’s an emotion in his voice that Achilles can’t quite identify.

“Good,” Nyx says. “I’ll leave the two of you to talk, then. I’ve already contacted Meg and Hypnos—nobody should be coming through for the next little while. Talk to him. Help him to see that he’s not everything that that wretched bitch said. Help him to start to heal.”

He hears the door open… and close… and a few seconds later, her car start. And then, he and Patroclus are alone.


	16. One Missed Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of Cheating, Discussion of Sexual Assault. There are no new tags for this chapter. Please proceed with caution!

“Achilles…” It’s a small consolation that Patroclus hadn’t bothered to dress to impress. If given the choice, Patroclus would live in his scrubs, but he _does_ have a selection of dressy-casual clothes he’ll consider for date nights with Achilles. He even has a dress jacket, hidden away in the depths of his disaster of a closet—

Patroclus is wearing _sneakers_. Achilles wonders how he convinced the maître d’ to let him into the restaurant. 

“It’s okay if you… if you don’t feel like talking, or you just don’t want to talk to me.” Patroclus’ voice is soft, despairing. “But I… fuck, when Nyx told me how much of an _idiot_ I’d been, I… Achilles, I am so, _so_ sorry. I know that that doesn’t mean anything now, but…” He throws himself down heavily in a nearby armchair.

Achilles shifts a little, re-cocooning himself in his blanket. “How was your date with Theseus?” His voice is dripping vitriol that he doesn’t quite feel. He’s too tired to feel much of anything at the moment.

“Please don’t…” Patroclus sounds a little desperate. And then, he takes a deep breath, “It wasn’t even really a date. I _told_ him that, upfront. But he kept flashing his cash on expensive wine and caviar and lobster and… I just… I felt so _uncomfortable_. He wasn’t _you_ , and… Well, nothing else really mattered.”

“Did you mean it, that you never intended to sleep with him?” Achilles lifts his eyes to meet Patroclus’ for the first time, considering the fat tears that cling to his dark lashes. “Or did you just say that to Nyx, to keep her from—”

The tears start pouring down Patroclus’ cheeks, “Achilles… I didn’t even sleep with _you_ until our third date.”

“And that’s supposed to convince me that you wouldn’t spread your legs for Theseus in a heartbeat?” He snarls, “I was _assaulted_ , and you took that as an invitation to be wined and dined by your sleazeball of a boss—”

Patroclus flinches, “I didn’t _know_ , Achilles. If I’d known, I never would’ve—”

“Yes, well. You certainly didn’t stick around to find out, either.” Achilles lowers his eyes to the floor, “ _I tried to tell you_ , but you didn’t listen. You didn’t even _try_ to entertain the idea that something else might’ve happened.”

“A-Achilles…” Patroclus’ voice falters as he chokes back a sob. Achilles keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, well-aware of the fact that, if he looks at Patroclus’ heartbroken face, he’ll falter—”I know that I fucked up. B-But you… you hadn’t been coming home, and you weren’t _talking_ to me, and—“

“This isn’t my fault!” And there it is. A flash of that old, all-consuming _rage_. His entire body is _shaking_ with it.

“I never said that it _was_.” Patroclus is struggling to keep his voice level, to not _yell_.

He’s heard Achilles yell, countless times. He’s never heard Achilles yell at _him_.

Achilles doesn’t want to yell at Patroclus. He doesn’t want to be responsible for the tears streaking down Patroclus’ cheeks. And yet, he’s so _mad_ that he’s almost sick with it, so hurt by the idea of Patroclus with anyone else that he can’t help the words that keep spilling over his lips. Each word is like a blade in Patroclus’ supple flesh, chipping away at the walls he’s built around his heart in the last six months. The walls that he’d built to protect himself from the very real possibility of losing Achilles to the battlefield… the operating table… _himself_.

Achilles throws back the blanket, drawing himself up to his full height. His heel _throbs_ , but the adrenaline flooding his system disguises the ache of it well enough. Patroclus shrinks back in the chair a little, but otherwise, fails to take the bait. Achilles doesn’t want him to shrink away. He wants him to _yell_. He wants him to admit that he’s wanted to fuck Theseus from the beginning, that he didn’t want to tell Achilles about it because he secretly liked the attention. Because he wanted to have something lined up for when their relationship inevitably went to hell in a handbasket—

“Was it the blond hair? The unusual eye color?” Achilles hisses through clenched teeth, “Or maybe you just miss me being an ass all the time—is that it? You have a fucking _type_ , Patroclus. I guess I’m just too fucked-up to fit the bill anymore, huh?”

Patroclus’ short nails dig into the fabric of the armrest, nearly tearing straight into the upholstery. “Achilles—”

“You’re such a fucking _slut_.” Patroclus’ tenses, as if Achilles had reached across the divide and struck him across the face. “Why would I believe _anything_ that comes out of your mouth? You went on a date with another man—”

“I’m trying to tell you that I fucked up. I _know_ that I fucked up, and I’m _sorry_ —”

Achilles rolls his eyes, “Your apologies don’t mean _shit_ , Pat. I _needed_ you, and _you weren’t there_.” He snaps.

Patroclus is making the most horrific, rasping inhalations as he tries to breathe around his sobs. Achilles would be worried, if he was even truly registering that his words weren’t just rolling right off of Patroclus’ back. “I… I-I _know_ that, Achilles. I almost _wrapped the fucking car around a tree_ getting here, because I was so worried—”

“No.” Achilles cuts him off sharply, “You’re not allowed to be ‘worried’ about me _now_. Not when fucking _Nyx_ had to tell you that you should’ve taken two fucking seconds to listen to what the _fuck_ I was trying to tell you—!”

Patroclus takes a deep breath… and _snaps_ like an over-stretched rubber band. “No, Achilles. _You_ don’t get to tell me how I feel about all of this. You are entitled to your emotions, just like I’m entitled to mine. You might not _like_ that I’m upset about all of this, but that’s not going to make me any less devastated—”

“Devastated? _Devastated_?” Achilles is tugging at the remnants of his hair. His throat is hoarse from all of the yelling. “You don’t know what devastation feels like.”

“Don’t I?” And now Patroclus is yelling, and it fills Achilles with an icy sort of unease. He thinks he might throw up. “I sent my husband off to war, and he came back with an extra hole in his body and shattered bones and mangled, half-dead nerves. He’s hurt in a way that _I can’t fix_ , despite years of training and practice—”

“If that’s too much for you to deal with, then why’re you still here?!” Achilles interjects sharply.

“Because I’m where I want to be!” Patroclus snaps back. “But you have to understand that you’re not the only one who’s in pain, Achilles! I’ve had to sit back and watch you pull away from me for six months, had to listen to you tell me—and _sincerely believe_ —that I would be better off with literally _anyone_ else—”

“So, you finally decided that I was right.” It’s not a question. Achilles deflates a little.

Patroclus’ cheeks are flushed with anger, “ _I don’t want Theseus_!”

“Then, why did you go on a date with him? Why did it take Nyx calling and telling you that I’d been to the fucking _crisis center_ for you to finally tear yourself away?” Achilles’ voice is so soft, it barely projects the short distance between them.

Patroclus rakes a hand through his hair, destroying the messy bun he’d put it in for his _date_. As his hand tangles in the dark locks, Achilles happens to catch a glimpse of a familiar glint of gold. Is that…? No, it couldn’t be. It wouldn’t make any sense, for Patroclus to put his wedding ring back on, prior to heading out on his little date with Theseus. Although… he does remember Patroclus mentioning that there was a logical explanation as to why he’d taken the ring off in the first place.

In a flash, Achilles is on his feet. _Everything_ hurts, but the anger bubbling up inside of his stomach is enough to force the pain emanating from his injured leg to the back of his mind. He doesn’t even know where his cane is—probably in the kitchen, leaning up against the island counter, alongside his dirty dishes. He takes Patroclus’ hand in his, his fingers pressing down on his husband’s skin just a hair too hard. Patroclus is much too confused by the sudden turn of events to do anything more than let Achilles study his hand—and, more importantly, the ring upon it.

“You’re wearing your ring.” He breathes, a little disbelieving. He runs his finger over the familiar grooves of the stones, taking a deep, somewhat unsteady breath.

“I… Yes?” Patroclus is looking at him oddly, as if he hadn’t been seen without his wedding ring the other day… as if Achilles hadn’t found his ring floating at the bottom of his bedside table drawer. “I never wanted to take it off. But I had to, or else they would have had to cut it off of me—”

“Cut it…?” He doesn’t understand. The ring appears _fine_. It fits, just as it always did…

Patroclus uses his free hand to scrub at his eyes, “I’ve put on like… thirty pounds since you were last deployed. And I… I’ve tried _everything_ to kick the weight, but it seems that my metabolism just isn’t what it used to be.”

Achilles isn’t sure why his first instinct is to poke Patroclus’ midsection. _Hard_. “There’s no way…”

“I hate to break it to you, Achilles… but I think our bathroom scale would beg to differ.” Patroclus says.

“Hmm…” But Achilles has already been distracted by the chain around Patroclus’ neck, tucked away in the neckline of his shirt. Curious, he tugs on it, his sea-glass eyes widening ever so slightly when he sees a familiar gold band dangling from the end. “This is…”

“My original ring, yeah.” Patroclus nods. “I took it to the jeweler to see if she could size it up, but the shank was too thin, and it broke. She claimed it could be fixed, but not without tampering with the ring’s original design. So I decided to commission a new one in the correct size, and fit it with the stones from the original ring.”

“And you… you wore that on your date with Theseus?” It’s a long-shot, but the idea warms his fragile heart, just a bit.

“It wasn’t a date.” Patroclus reminds him, but all of the anger is gone from his voice. Now, he just sounds tired. “And of course I did. I only take it off for operations, you know that.”

There’s another ring, dangling right alongside Patroclus’ broken band. Achilles recognizes it immediately, “That’s…”

“Your wedding ring? Yeah.” Patroclus’ lips quirk up into a shaky smile. Gently, he eases the chain from Achilles’ hand, to run his thumb over the gentle curve of Achilles’ ring.

Achilles’ face twists in confusion as he starts, “I’d thought that that—”

“Was in your jewelry box, tucked away in the back of the top drawer of our dresser?” Well, yes. How long had Patroclus been wearing it on a chain around his neck? “I understand why you don’t wear it anymore. I don’t think you should ever feel underserving of it, but I… I understand. I just couldn’t bear to leave it hidden away like that.”

“P-Patroclus…” the tears that’d been bubbling in his eyes since the beginning of their fight spill over, as all of the anger that’d been keeping him standing leaves him like a flood.

Patroclus is there to catch him when he starts to tetter, directing him to stumble forward and land, splayed-leg, across Patroclus’ lap. For a moment, he becomes tense, uncomfortable with the feeling of hands upon him—even knowing that those hands belong to the man that he loves most in the world. It takes a concerted effort to relax his body, to make himself fit against Patroclus. It used to be so _easy_. God, he wants it to be easy again. Patroclus’ hands are gentle, hesitant ghosts of things on his back, aching to draw him close and trembling with the effort it takes to _not_.

Achilles draws in a deep, shaky breath. His lungs _burn_ , like they used to after he’d run a six minute mile, or after a particularly energetic round with Patroclus in the bedroom. He buries his face in the crook of Patroclus’ neck, inhaling the sweet scent of his shampoo. He hadn’t bothered to shave before his not-date, and the stubble that clings to the underside of his chin tickles Achilles’ sensitive skin. It feels _nice_ … like pulling onto your street after a disastrous day; you’re not quite home, but you’re close, and that proximity brings you a wonderful sense of _peace_.

Achilles is smearing snot on the shoulder of Patroclus’ t-shirt, his tears making the fabric nearly transparent. Patroclus doesn’t seem to care—he’s crying just as hard, his hold on Achilles growing just a hair tighter. The armchair groans under their combined weight; Achilles doesn’t think it was designed to hold two full-grown men, but he doesn’t care. He’s felt so broken, so out of place—like an outsider in his own story. To know that he’s not alone, that Patroclus has been feeling just as lost, just as broken… that he’s been grappling with his own inability to _fix_ it all…

“I shouldn’t have texted her…” Achilles wheezes, in between gasping, open-mouthed sobs. Patroclus rakes his nails along the length of his back, “If I-I’d just… If I’d just texted you, l-like Nyx told me to, none of t-this—”

Patroclus shakes his head, “No, Achilles. No. None of this is your fault. Deidamia took advantage of you—that’s on her, that’s not on you.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for complaint. “If I’d just taken a second to think about it, I would’ve realized there was something more going on—”

“S-She told me… that all I’d ever be… w-was depressed, a-and crippled, and a- _alone_.” He fists the front of Patroclus’ shirt tight, tugging until he can hear the stitches pulling. “And she’s r-right!” He sobs.

“Shh…” Patroclus runs his fingers through his horribly mangled hair, “That’s not true, love. It’s true that depression is a condition that won’t just go away with medicine, but…” He tilts Achilles’ head back, meeting his eyes. “It doesn’t define you. You’re such a wonderful, loving person. Just look at how much Zagreus looks up to you.”

He sniffles, “He thinks that I can offer him better advice than his old man. That’s hardly a hard hurdle—”

“You’re Pyrrhus’ hero.” Patroclus adds.

That earns a short bark of a laugh, “Last time I checked, that was _you_.” And then, “Besides, last I checked, he still hated me for not being able to come home on time.”

He bites down on his bottom lip, breaking eye contact to focus on a strand of hair on the left side of Achilles’ head that refused to lay down properly. “I…” He breathes, before deciding that maybe he shouldn’t say anything, after all.

Achilles sniffles again, a little louder this time, “What?”

“Pyrrhus… saw you leave the other night.” Achilles’ heart _drops_. “He thinks that you left because he upset you. I told him that it wasn’t true, that you left because you were upset with _me_ , and that you’d come back soon enough. But… I don’t think he believed me, because he built you that birdhouse…”

“I-I thought that was to m-make up for the one he regifted t-to you?” Achilles’ breath is coming quicker now. Patroclus shakes his head, moving one of his hands to press is gently to Achilles’ sternum.

“We’ll talk about it later.” Patroclus says, then, “ _I_ love you.”

“I don’t know why.” He whispers, “I cannot even claim to be a _shell_ of the man you married. Fuck, I sat right there and called you a _slut_ , Pat!” He knows that he needs to calm down. He can feel the way that his chest is tightening, each breath sounding more and more like a _whistle_.

“That… admittedly, wasn’t one of your greatest moments.”

Achilles doesn’t understand how Patroclus can still be smiling at him, with everything that he’d said—with how _cruel_ he’d been. Achilles had always been an asshole—at least he _had_ been, prior to being shot in the heel. But he’d always been so careful to shield Patroclus from the less favorable aspects of his personality. He’d never raised his voice to him, or called him names… he’s horrified that it’d been so easy for him to call Patroclus such a horrible name. He’s even _more_ horrified that Patroclus seems all-too-willing to just _forgive_ him for it.

Patroclus had every right to be mad at him—furious, even. And he _had_ been, just a few minutes ago. His cheeks had been flush, his entire body trembling with the force it took to keep himself from doing or saying something that he might later regret. Achilles had had no such restraint, spitting out anything and everything that had come into his mind, as soon as it had come into his mind. And now… the hand on Achilles’ sternum raises ever so slightly to curl around his chin, tilting his head back just so. Achilles shivers, doing his best to avoid Patroclus’ searching eyes.

“Do you honestly believe that I had any intention of sleeping with Theseus, at any point?” Patroclus asks. It takes Achilles a moment to realize that they have, in fact, cycled back to the Theseus issue—and that Patroclus is, in fact, looking for an answer.

Achilles is silent for a long moment, before he asks in a small voice… “Why did you go out with him?”

He sighs, “I didn’t intend to.” He begins, “At the time, I said it without thinking. But then… he started pestering me at work today, and I just… I caved. I told him I’d go to a friendly dinner, but that it absolutely _wasn’t_ a date. I might’ve been heartbroken, but I was still very aware of the fact that Theseus is a sleazy motherfucker.”

Achilles inhales slowly. “I… I believe you.” And, amazingly enough… _he does_.

That doesn’t quite seem to register for Patroclus at first. Then, his face splits with a tremendous smile, “I love you, Achilles Pelides.” Strangely, the name doesn’t seem half as bad, when it’s spilling over Patroclus’ lips.

“I love you, too…” It comes out reverent, like a prayer. It’s the only thing he wants to say to Patroclus ever again.

Achilles stares at him—this man, whom he doesn’t deserve, whom he’s _never_ deserved. He’s not the same man that Patroclus married, and he doesn’t know if it is possible for him to ever _be_ that man again, but Patroclus… he loves him anyway; and for all this time that Achilles has been unable to love himself, he’s _still_ loved him. Achilles won’t pretend to understand it, but it fills dark, cold pit in the middle of his chest with an almost _unbearable_ light. He loves Patroclus so intensely, it _hurts_. And to know that that’s reciprocated, even in part, is—

He leans down, brushing his lips over Patroclus’. The kiss is gentle at first, little more than the suggestion of something far more intimate… Patroclus’ body begins to tremble for an entirely different reason, but he doesn’t push, allowing Achilles all the time he needs to decide what to do next—if he is to do anything at all. Achilles draws back a little, sucking in a ragged breath… sea-glass eyes meet chocolate brown, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. And then, Achilles swoops in and crashes their mouths together in a bruising kiss.

It is the single most disgusting kiss that they’ve ever shared, and the armchair’s ominous creaking cuts it short—

A second later, Achilles is in the air. He blinks, scrabbling for purchase on Patroclus’ broad back as he’s carried back over to the couch and set down amongst the cushions with the utmost care. “Let me get something to wash your face…” He says, as he bundles Achilles back up in the blanket.

He vanishes upstairs, presumably to get a washcloth from Nyx’s linen cabinet. When he returns, he has a cool cloth in one hand, and a cloth filled with ice cubes in the other. “…What’s that for?”

“You’re probably dehydrated.” Patroclus says, his voice soft. He takes a seat on the edge of the coffee table, in-between Achilles’ knees. “So, I’m going to wash your face off, have you drink some more water, and then let you take a nice, long nap with a cool compress over your eyes.”

Achilles shakes his head, “But I… I don’t want to take a nap. Where will you be?”

Patroclus rolls his eyes, “I’m not going anywhere, love. Brie’s got the kids, and I have nowhere to be until tomorrow morning. And since I don’t have any surgeries lined up, and enough PTO built up to take off until your birthday—”

“You’re not…” Achilles begins, and then promptly loses steam. Patroclus looks at him, curiosity plain on his face. “You don’t have feelings for Briseis, do you? I know that… well, that that’s kind of coming out of nowhere, but Dei said that Brie had had a crush on you in high school, before we’d gotten together—”

His husband presses a gentle finger to his lips, “First of all, please, don’t _ever_ take _anything_ that comes out of Deidamia’s mouth to heart. Just… promise me that.” After a moment, Achilles manages a weak nod. “And no. I don’t have feelings for Briseis. She’s our friend, nothing more.”

Achilles lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Good.”

Once he’s satisfied with the condition of Achilles’ face, he sets the washcloth aside and takes up Achilles’ half-finished water bottle. “Come on. Just a couple of sips, and then you can lay down.”

He takes the bottle slowly, “Will you… lay down with me?”

Patroclus blinks, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea right now…”

It’s unclear whether he’s referring to the fact that Achilles is still very much recovering from a major trauma, and needs time to feel safe and comfortable inside of his own skin once again, or the fact that Achilles will be napping on the couch, which is barely large enough for Achilles to lay on by himself—if they were to both try and make themselves comfortable on the tiny surface, it would only be a matter of time until one or both of them ended up eating mouthfuls of carpet.

Either way, Achilles doesn’t appreciate the feeling of helplessness that comes with having his choice taken from him. He knows that Patroclus means well, but he’s a grown ass adult that’s capable of making his own decisions—whether those decisions be good or bad. If he wants to cuddle with his husband, then he should have the choice of cuddling with his husband. _That being said_ , this entire conversation has been _draining_. Achilles doesn’t have the energy to express his displeasure, however, and settles for asking—

“Would you sit with me, then?” He feels bad, asking Patroclus to sit on the floor _next_ to the couch, but if it’s the best that he’s going to get…

“Of course.” Patroclus presses his lips to Achilles’ forehead, before wrapping him up in the blanket. He even takes the time to slide a cushion underneath Achilles’ injured foot, to make sure that it doesn’t swell. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. And then we’ll talk some more. Okay?”

“…Okay.” He fights the siren song of sleep for as long as possible, but when Patroclus takes a seat near his head and starts carding his fingers through the ruins of his hair, he folds like a house of cards.

He’s out seconds before his phone flashes **ONE MISSED CALL: ZAGREUS**.


	17. Rock the Boat

Achilles can’t remember the last time that his phone was this active. It seems that, every time he can feel the sweet embrace of sleep start to overtake him, his phone is buzzing with a new notification. Eventually, Patroclus just turns it off, without bothering to check who the bevy of calls and text messages had been from. Achilles has a feeling that that’s going to come back to bite him in the ass, but right now, he’s far too tired to care. Besides, the only three people who ever actually call him are Patroclus, Briseis, and the lad. Patroclus is here with him, and Briseis would likely call Patroclus if she needed something or something was wrong with one of the kids, which left…

No, he’s… he’s just overthinking things. He just checked in with the lad… yesterday? At least, he _thinks_ it was yesterday. Admittedly, his days had started to bleed together somewhere along the line, but… but he _knows_ it couldn’t have been _that_ long. Zagreus had said that Thanatos was doing okay, but that the medicine was having some adverse effects on his moods. He’d seemed to understand that that was normal, though, and didn’t mistake it for Thanatos’ true feelings toward him. He also understood what to look for, on the off-chance that he had to take Thanatos back to the hospital, so he wouldn’t be calling about that. So, whatever it was couldn’t be _too_ important—

Still… he reaches over to smack Patroclus on the shoulder. His husband makes a strange sound, before turning around to face him, his dark eyes narrowed. “Sorry.” He shifts a little, “Could you maybe… text Nyx, and ask her to check on Thanatos and the lad?”

Patroclus’ features soften a little, “I… yeah, I can do that. Do you think that something’s wrong?” He takes out his phone and sends off a quick message to Nyx. Achilles eyes flutter closed.

He doesn’t know if what he’s feeling could constitute ‘worry’. He doesn’t even know, definitively, whether or not the lad is the one that’s been blowing up his phone. But he does think he’ll sleep a little easier, knowing Nyx is on the case. “I don’t think so, no. But I’ll feel better _knowing_.”

Patroclus nods, reaching up to twine his fingers in Achilles soft blonde hair. “It’s so short now…” He laments.

Achilles frowns, “You don’t like it.” He knew that Patroclus preferred him with long hair, but it hadn’t really mattered to him, in that moment. To be honest, he’s not sure if he really likes it, himself. It was just something _different_.

“It’s just… going to take some getting used to, is all. The last time your hair was this short…” He trails off, unwilling to complete that train of thought. It’s easy enough for Achilles to fill in the blanks, however…

“Would you… maybe… fix it for me?” He asks, weakly. Patroclus’ eyes widen a little. “I know that it looks… well, _terrible_. And I know how much you liked my hair long. So…” He doesn’t really mind _what_ his hair looks like, so long as it doesn’t make Patroclus look like he’s looking right now ever again.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have it done by a professional?” Patroclus had cut Pyrrhus’ hair once, once upon a time. It’d been a bit of a disaster. The poor kid’s hair _still_ grew unevenly in the back.

Achilles nods, “I trust you.” He lays his head back down, and drifts off into a not-quite sleep state.

When he wakes, Patroclus is returning from the kitchen, his arms overflowing with various odds and ends. He’s replenished the ice in the washcloth he’d been holding over Achilles’ eyes, and brought him some fresh water to drink. He also has a couple of granola bars (most of which are the soft, chewy kind that Achilles likes—although there appear to be a few hard ones in the mix as well), some applesauce, and a protein shake. While none of the food is too substantial, it’s also not anything that will have an adverse effect on his already upset stomach. He’s going to be paying dearly for all of that crying earlier, if the ache in his belly is any indication.

“You’re awake.” Patroclus sounds a little surprised. How long was he asleep? “You can sleep for a little while longer, if you’d like. I just wanted to make sure that I had some supplies on hand, for when you felt ready to be up for a little while.” He sets all of the items down on the coffee table.

“Sit with me?” Achilles asks. Patroclus looks like he is about to mention that he was, in fact, sitting with him just a second ago, when Achilles amends, “On the couch. I want to use your lap as a pillow.”

“I…” He looks uncertain. Achilles drags himself over to make room for Patroclus to be able to sit comfortably alongside him, “You’re certain that this won’t make you uncomfortable.”

Achilles pauses for a moment, considering. Then, “I promise to tell you if you do anything that makes me uncomfortable.” He hates that he no longer feels confident enough in his own skin to know, definitively, what will and will not upset him. It would be easy enough, to say that Deidamia took that from him, but…

The truth is, he hasn’t felt comfortable in his own skin ever since the physical therapist told him that he was risking a serious fall every time he went more than a few steps without the assistance of his cane. He hadn’t believed her, at least, not at first—not until he’d fallen in front of Pyrrhus, after the young boy had asked him to get him a snack. The fall wouldn’t have been particularly bad, had he not landed directly on the tile floor. He’d been a giant bruise from hip to shoulder, and could barely move the left side of his body without wincing. Despite his best efforts, Pyrrhus had blamed himself for that for _weeks_.

He feels like a stranger, wearing Achilles Pelides’ broken meatsuit. He sees photos of himself from when he was younger and finds himself unable to identify with the smiling kid, surrounded by the sunshine bright faces of those that claimed to be his friends. He thinks about Zagreus’ surprise at discovering that Achilles was, in fact, married… about Briseis breaking the news to him that Patroclus had been talking to a divorce lawyer… about the fact that Patroclus had been on a not-date with his scummy boss… and he can’t help but think that none of these things would’ve happened to _the_ Achilles Pelides.

Patroclus takes a seat on the newly vacated cushion. After a brief moment of consideration, Achilles slowly lowers himself down so that his head is resting on Patroclus’ lap. Yes, that’s nice… Absently, he reaches for his husband’s hand, bringing it around to rest on his stomach. Patroclus is quick to take the hint, and begins to rub soft, soothing circles on Achilles’ belly, through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

It would feel better on bare skin. He’s not going to push. Not yet., at least.

Patroclus sets the new, ice-filled washcloth over his eyes. Achilles basks in the soothing numbness it provides for just a moment, before asking, “Pat… why did you choose to stay with me, after…” he trails off. He knows that Patroclus will understand what it is that he means.

“Why did I…?” He can almost hear the way that Patroclus is frowning, “Achilles, love, the idea of leaving you never even crossed my mind. I was never going to leave you to navigate all of this on your own. _Never_.”

Achilles sniffles. Patroclus, as if reading his mind, passes him a tissue so that he can blow his nose. “I just… It would’ve been so much easier. You could be with someone _worthy_ of your love, l-like Briseis—”

Patroclus presses a finger to his lips, “Shh. I already told you, you have nothing to worry about with Briseis. Would it make you feel better if we hired a different nanny to watch the kids for a while?” It sounds nice, right now, but he knows he’d feel awful about it later. Brie loves their kids, and they love her. It wouldn’t be fair to any of them.

“N-No.” He shakes his head a little, causing the ice to shift.

“I have no intention of leaving you for Briseis—or anyone else that might come along.” Patroclus’ voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. Achilles concentrates on the feel of the pads of his fingers pressing lightly onto his belly. “And before you say anything, I know that she told you I’d talked with her father.”

“You… You do?” He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He just… well, he supposed that Briseis would have mentioned that to Patroclus, especially if Patroclus mentioned if he’d run off that same night.

“It’s not what you think.” Patroclus says, before adding, “Achilles, love… I know that we talked with Brie about… well, taking the kids if anything happened to us. But I don’t think either of us seriously considered the possibility that something _very well_ might happen to us before Pyrrhus… err, now Amaltheia, turns eighteen.”

Achilles furrows his brow, “But… why all the secrecy? You could’ve told me. I would’ve understood. Especially considering that we’ve had this conversation before—in great detail.”

Patroclus is silent for a moment, before conceding, “I knew that you would’ve had to update your will prior to your last deployment, so I figured that you would’ve included something to that effect. I just… wanted to make sure that all my ducks were in a row, in case something terrible happened. Not that I think anything _will_ , but—"

“…It really scared you, didn’t it? To see me like that.” Achilles muses, not really expecting an answer.

“It did, yeah.” Patroclus’ voice is barely a whisper. “God, Achilles, I don’t even want to think about what I would do if something were to happen to you…” He presses a kiss to the crown of Achilles head, “But you don’t need to worry about it anymore. Everything’s taken care of now.”

It’s a reasonable enough explanation, and he has no reason to doubt Patroclus’ earnestness. It’s true that he’d been tasked with updating his will prior to his last deployment, and… well, it would be fair to say that he’d been far from thorough. He had included language that stated that Briseis were to care for Pyrrhus should Patroclus predecease him for whatever reason, but there was nothing in the document pertaining to Amaltheia because Amaltheia had yet to be born. It wasn’t a bad idea to go back and update that, just to make sure that _all_ of his children were taken care of and _all_ of his property accounted for.

He can’t fault Patroclus for going and talking to a lawyer after his accident. He hadn’t thought that there was ever any _real_ risk of him dying, but anything was possible—the patient that Patroclus had lost on the table to an allergic reaction was a testament to that. Perhaps he would make an appointment to talk with Briseis’ father himself, just so that he could put those last few, important details into his will. He would try to remember to do so, when he was in a better frame of mind. For now, it was enough to rest easy in the knowledge that Patroclus was only trying to ensure that their little family was taken care of in the unlikely event of their untimely demise.

Patroclus’ hand stills, “Achilles… please don’t tell me that you _actually_ thought that I was planning to divorce you.” Achilles is thankful for the washcloth over his eyes, so that he doesn’t have to see the look of absolute devastation on Patroclus’ face. It’s bad enough he can hear it in his voice. “Sweetheart, I would _never_ —”

“I know that. Logically, I know that.” Achilles interrupts, his voice soft. “I just… sometimes I get to thinking about how much better your life would be if you didn’t have to deal with all of my bullshit. And then I wonder _why_ you bother sticking around to deal with all of my bullshit, when you’d be so much happier—”

“First of all,” Patroclus resumes massaging his belly, pressing a bit more firmly now. “I love my life just the way it is, because _you’re_ in it. Achilles, we… we’re two halves of the same whole. You’re it for me, love.”

“Pat…” Ugh, he needs another tissue. Patroclus presses another into his hand without missing a beat.

“Secondly… I’m not ‘dealing with your bullshit’. Achilles, you were _shot_. That’s a traumatic event, that takes _time_ to properly process. I know you feel like six months is a long time, but it’s really not, in the grand scheme of things.”

And he _knows_ that, he _does_ , it’s just… “I want to be the man that you fell in love with again.”

Patroclus’ hand accidentally slips beneath the hem of his shirt, causing the calloused pads of his fingers dancing across Achilles’ bare midriff. Achilles tenses momentarily, before relaxing back against Patroclus’ leg. “Achilles, sweetheart… you never _stopped_ being that man. The man you are today—”

“Is a teary-eyed, mucus-y _mess_.” Achilles huffs.

“Okay, yes, you _are_ rather mucus-y.” Patroclus concedes, “But you’re _also_ smart—” Achilles would object to that, “and funny, and caring, and _loving_. If anything, I’m more in love with you today than I was on the day that I married you.” _That_ catches Achilles off-guard.

“Why?” He doesn’t mean for that to come out _quite_ so judgmental, but… honestly, that doesn’t make any sense.

“Because now, we have two beautiful children who think the world of you. And every time I look at Pyrrhus, with that gap between his two front teeth, and the smattering of freckles on his cheeks, and that wild hair that’s always just a smidge too long… I think of you.”

Achilles sighs, “I do suppose that I make cute kids…”

“Kid _s_?” The ‘s’ comes out in a long, serpentine hiss. “Do you have _more_ kids that I ought to know about?”

He sticks out his tongue, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Funny…” Patroclus doesn’t seem to quite know how to respond to that, and so he starts to peel open one of the soft, chewy granola bars. He presses it into Achilles’ hand, saying, “If you’re feeling well enough to crack jokes, then you’re well enough to eat some of this.”

* * *

Achilles doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he next wakes, it’s to Patroclus squirming uncomfortably underneath him. His eyes flutter open, a little ache-y—but substantially less so than if Patroclus hadn’t thought to use the cold compress when he had. He whines, snuggling a bit closer to Patroclus’ midsection, when he realizes exactly what it is that’s causing his husband such distress. There is a sizeable tent in the front of Patroclus’ jeans, which seems to twitch every time Achilles’ face gets too close. Considering that his head had practically been _on top_ of it, he can only imagine how hard he’s been struggling.

“I know that you must be really comfortable, but…” Patroclus is already trying to worm his way out from underneath Achilles. Achilles isn’t having any of it. “Achilles, love… I really need to take care of this.”

“I know.” Achilles takes a deep, steadying breath. “I… Maybe I could…” He licks his lips. This was never so hard, before… well, before _everything_. “I could help you with that, if you’d like.” His voice is scarcely louder than a whisper, and a little raspy. Patroclus’ eyes widen.

“Achilles, you… you’re under _no_ obligation to do _anything_ for me. I’m a grown ass man, who is fully capable of taking care of his own sexual urges. This is _not_ your problem.” And, really, it’s sweet of him to be so insistent, but… “Besides, with everything that happened—”

“Say it.” Achilles cuts in sharply. “You’re not doing me any favors by beating around the bush. Deidamia assaulted me. She made me feel _worthless… powerless_ … She took advantage of me.”

Patroclus’ face is a picture of pure heartbreak. But Achilles can’t afford to falter, not now. “Words are not capable of conveying how much I hate her, and everything that she’s done to you, my love.”

They feel the same, then. “But you, Pat… you’re not her.”

Patroclus’ eyes widen when Achilles moves to unlatch his belt. “Achilles, what’re you…?” Achilles pays him no mind, carefully sliding the slip of black leather from his pant loops. Once he has it free, he twists it around Patroclus’ wrists, binding them up behind his head. “Um…”

“I _want_ to do this, Pat. Even if I can’t…” He still can’t bring himself to come out and say it. “But I… _if_ I do it, I need to know that I am completely and totally in control. That you’re not going to—and I know you wouldn’t, but…” He fumbles with the button on Patroclus’ pants, slowly working them open, “Is the belt too tight?”

He’d left it a little loose, just in case. The knowledge that Pat is bound, and the visual of his hands behind his head, is helping more than anything else. “No, they’re… they’re fine.” Patroclus swallows hard.

“You’ll tell me if it becomes too much?” Achilles presses.

“I’m more worried about _you_ —”

Achilles rolls his eyes. He understands why Pat is worried, of course, but he can do this. At least, he thinks that he can. And on the off-chance that he can’t, he has the power to walk away and let Pat take care of business in the bathroom. He slides Pat’s zipper down, nice and slow, before reaching inside his now open pants and taking hold of his aching length. Patroclus sucks in a sharp breath, his entire body practically _radiating_ need. His hips twitch, desperate to buck up into Achilles’ hand, but he manages to hold them still, for the most part. Achilles slides off of the couch and carefully situates himself between Patroclus’ trembling legs.

He considers the length in his hand for a moment. This is certainly not the first time that he’s held Patroclus’ cock, nor is it the first time that he’s knelt between his husband’s legs with the intent of drinking down every utterly delectable inch of him… But this feels like a first, nonetheless. He remembers the smear of bright red lipstick on his shirt, and not being able to recall how it’d gotten there…

His grip tightens on Patroclus’ cock. His husband draws in a sharp, shaky breath.

“I need you to tell me, right now—yes or no. Because I’m not going to force myself on you if you don’t want me.” Achilles says. He is staring deeply into Patroclus’ dark eyes, his pupils so dilated it is near impossible to tell the inky black depths from the deep, dark brown of his irises.

Patroclus is barely keeping his heavily aroused body in check. The muscles in his arms twitch beneath his skin as he flexes against his bonds, “I… I don’t want what _I_ want to influence what _you’re_ willing to give.” He says.

Achilles frowns. That’s not an answer. “I…” He licks his lips, “I am as sure as I can be that _in this exact moment_ , this is what I want to do. I may change my mind in five minutes and stop. I may not. But, as of _right now_ , if you’re okay with it, I would very much like to suck your cock.”

Patroclus’ dark eyes flutter, “O-Okay. Then… yes. Yes, I would very much like w-whatever you’re willing to—”

Patroclus isn’t able to finish his sentence. Achilles licks his lips, before opening his mouth wide and taking every inch of Patroclus’ cock in one smooth glide. A second later, his nose is teasing the dense patch of curls nestled above Patroclus’ cock, his cheeks brushing the cool metal of the zipper. His throat is open and relaxed, his cheeks hollow as he takes a moment to appreciate the heaviness of Patroclus’ cock on his tongue. It’s every bit as big as he remembered, and sensitive, too. He swallows around it, intending just to tease—

He hears a rattling from somewhere above his head. Sliding up a little, he offers Patroclus’ leaking slit a slow lick, his sea-glass eyes flickering up in time to catch Patroclus digging his nails into his palms. His teeth are pressing into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, his pretty eyes sealed shut… Could he already be so close? He supposes that it _has_ been awhile since they’ve been intimate like this, but still… Achilles bobs his head back down, spittle making his pale lips glisten in the dim light of Nyx’s living room. The television is still on in the distance, playing a show that neither he nor Patroclus has ever seen—or actually really care about.

“A-Achilles—” Patroclus’ hips twitch, just a little. Achilles’ hands snake up to push him back down onto the couch cushion. “F-Fuck, I… I’m _really_ close.”

He supposes that that’s his cue to pull-off, if he doesn’t want a mouthful of Patroclus’ cum.

Except, his favorite part of all of this is watching Patroclus come undone, and so he presses Patroclus’ hips more firmly to the cushion and sucks, _hard_. The crotch of Patroclus’ jeans are soaked through with spittle and a bit of pre, so that anyone who cared to look would have no doubt as to what he’d been doing. He makes a delightfully broken sound, as Achilles takes him so deep that he has little choice but to spend down his throat. He swallows, reflexively, earning the most delightful shivers from his husband—who is far too sensitive to be enduring such exquisite torture. It’s only once Patroclus is practically sobbing from overstimulation that he pulls off with a wet _pop_.

“You alright there, Pat?” He asks. His throat is a little sore, but otherwise he feels… pretty okay. He could go for another nap, but… “Let me untie you there…” Patroclus seems relieved to be able to put his arms down, and Achilles can’t blame him.

“I… That was…” He takes a moment to catch his breath, before saying, “I’d kiss you, if you didn’t just…” Ah yes, he’d almost forgotten about Pat’s little blow-job related hang-up. He snorts.

“Go make yourself presentable, before Nyx comes home and wonders just what it was that we got up to on her couch in her absence.” Patroclus’ eyes widen, as if he was just now realizing that they weren’t at home. He barely waits for Achilles to clear the way before taking off for the bathroom, not even bothering to zip his pants before rushing off.

Achilles snorts, before easing himself back up onto the couch. He has a feeling that he’s going to regret having spend so much time kneeling like that… but right now, he’s feeling good, and he intends to ride that high for as long as possible. So, he makes himself comfortable in the corner of the couch where Patroclus had just been sitting and props up his ankle to help ease some of the swelling. He’s just about to reach for the remote, when he remembers the inundation of texts and calls that he’d received from Zagreus earlier. It takes him a moment to locate his phone, and then to turn it back on, and sure enough—

**FIVE MISSED CALLS**

There’s only one voicemail, though. And, oddly enough, it’s only ten seconds long. Confused, and more than a little concerned, Achilles presses play. Wherever the lad was when he made the call, there were plenty of people around, because there’s a dull roar of dozens upon dozens of overlapping voices. A little nearer to the receiver is someone singing “Rock the Boat” incredibly loudly—and off-key.

And then Zagreus’ voice cuts in with a soft, _“I’m sorry, sir. I really wanted to tell you this in person, but… I quit.”_


	18. Missing

Achilles stares at his phone, his features twisted in confusion and apprehension. It’d taken playing the message three times for it to sink in that this truly was the lad’s resignation—but he still found himself unable to wrap his head around _why_ the lad would want to quit in the first place. Achilles paid him well, far better than he’d earn anywhere else for the same quality of work (to be honest, if the lad couldn’t figure out how to work a simple washing machine, the odds of him _still being employed_ anywhere else were slim to none). And he’d been more than willing to allow the lad to take as much time off as he needed to help Thanatos recover in the wake of his injury. Who was he to punish the lad for being a good partner, when he needed to take time off to tend to his own needs?

It just… didn’t make any sense. Surely, if it were something serious enough to cause him to tender his resignation, he would’ve come to Achilles and tried to talk it over first. But then… he _had_ said that he’d wanted to tell Achilles the news in person. Had he tried to come by the gym, only to discover that it was closed? Perhaps he’d come by the house, only to find Briseis alone with the kids? Achilles didn’t know. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something _important_ , and… well, that he’d failed the lad somehow. Not that any of this was his fault, of course. At least, that’s what everyone kept telling him. But it felt like his life was spiraling out of his immediate control, and it was all he could do to just… keep holding on, and hope for the best.

He’s still staring at his phone when Patroclus returns from the bathroom. “Achilles? Achilles, love, what’s wrong? You’re crying.” Is he? He hadn’t noticed. Honestly, that would explain the dull ache behind his eyes…

“The lad… Zagreus, he, um…” He rakes a trembling hand through his short hair, as he tries to corral his wayward tongue into forming the appropriate words. “He quit. A-And I… I don’t know why. He left me a ten-second long voicemail that…” He trails off, before deciding it would be easier to just play it for him.

Achilles plays the message back again, this time on speaker. There’s the dull roar of the crowd, and someone singing off-key in the nearby vicinity, and—“ _I’m sorry, sir. I really wanted to tell you this in person, but… I quit.”_

Patroclus blinks, “I thought that he was just supposed to be taking some time off, to help Thanatos recover?”

Achilles nods, “That’s…” Reaching up, he drags the heel of his palm underneath his eyes, his sharp cheeks blooming a rosy pink. “That’s what I’d thought, too. Apparently, we were both wrong.”

His husband sighs, “Achilles…” Squatting down in front of the smaller man, he draws him into a gentle, and incredibly loose, embrace. Achilles doesn’t fight it, allowing himself to be dragged along like a ragdoll. “I know that the temptation is there to think that all of this is your fault—but it’s not.”

Achilles presses his face deeper into Patroclus’ chest, “Do you think that he and Thanatos had a fight?”

“It’s possible.” Which is Patroclus’ way of saying that it’s unlikely. The odds of Zagreus having a serious fight with his injured… boyfriend? Had they ever actually put a label on things? Achilles didn’t know. Anyhow, the odds were slim to none. “Maybe he had another fight with his father? You said those were fairly common.”

That is, unfortunately, true. Or, it _was_ true, when Achilles had first hired the lad. Now, to be fair, despite Hades many, _many_ faults—Achilles would be lying if he said that he didn’t think that the other man was trying to do right by his son. Hades had been thrust into a very difficult situation, what with his wife leaving him to care for three small children just a handful of weeks after delivering their youngest daughter. He’d always been upfront about the fact that his own childhood was nothing to emulate, and his brothers’ and sisters’ respective parenting styles had been… questionable, at best. Zeus demanded too much from his children, Poseidon far too little. Persephone wouldn’t even talk to Demeter, and Demeter’s sister Hestia had no children of her own…

Parenthood did not come naturally to Hades. Achilles could understand—it hadn’t come naturally to him, either. By the time that Pyrrhus was born, he’d read more books on parenting than he had in his entire thirteen years of schooling. He’d been convinced that if he didn’t do everything _perfectly_ , he’d ruin the child and they’d hate him forever. Of course, six years later, he’s still convinced he’s going to do something to make Pyrrhus hate him forever, but he’s a little less concerned about ruining his chances to thrive academically if he doesn’t know at least three languages by the time he starts kindergarten. But Achilles had had Patroclus to help mitigate the fear of the unknown. Hades had had no-one.

That was in no way meant to excuse some of the absolute horror stories that Zagreus had told him about his experiences growing up in that House. As far as he’s concerned, allowing your son to think that he’s stupid just because he doesn’t fit neatly into your preconceived notions regarding intelligence is _never_ okay. And forcing him to drop out of college because he failed at a subject he tried, and failed—repeatedly—to wrap his head around? Yeah, no. If Hades weren’t his landlord…

The _point_ is that Hades _is_ trying, in his own way. His efforts are not always appreciated by Zagreus, but they are there, nonetheless. And, unfortunately, they are often the catalyst for their many, _many_ fights. So yes, it is entirely possible that Zagreus fought with his father, and was attempting to pull away as a result—

After all, Hades _had_ been the one to get Zagreus the job at the gym in the first place.

But that still didn’t account for where he had gone, and who he was with—and the nagging feeling in his chest that he’d abandoned Thanatos to go off and do… whatever it is that he’s doing. Achilles is sorely tempted to call him back, just to make sure that, wherever he is, he’s alright, but…

Now that Zagreus isn’t his employee, does he even have the right?

“Achilles?” He’s brought back to the present by the sound of Patroclus’ voice, soft and sweet and so very, very gentle. “You have to let me know what you’re thinking, love. I can’t read your mind.”

Achilles licks his lips, thinking his next words over carefully. “I… I would like to call him. T-To check in, and make sure that he’s doing alright, wherever he is. Maybe I can convince him to come back? But even if I can’t… I don’t want _this_ to be our last conversation, you know?”

Patroclus nods, “Yeah, no… I… I totally understand. That… There’s definitely a lot to unpack there.” He says. “And I don’t fault you for wanting to call him. But I’m also going to posit that he’s a twenty-six year old man, who didn’t sound like he was in any immediate danger—”

Achilles drums his fingers on the side of his leg, “True. But this is _also_ the same twenty-six year old who _still_ doesn’t know how to properly operate a washing machine.”

Patroclus frowns, “Achilles… you have to take care of yourself before you’ll be in a position to take care of anyone else.” And he _knows_ that—he doesn’t need Patroclus to remind him of the obvious, especially—

He narrows his eyes, “You’re not going to try and get me to take another nap, are you?”

His husband rolls his eyes, “You say that like you don’t _like_ taking naps.”

“I have no particular objection to naps.” He says. And normally, that’s absolutely true. He _likes_ taking naps, because they provide him a brief respite from the rest of the bullshit he has to deal with while he’s awake. But he feels like he’s been sleeping _forever_ , and he’d very much like to do _something_ other than—

In the distance, he can hear the front door opening. He’d thought that he’d heard something akin to shouting outside, but he’d pushed the thought aside in favor of focusing all of his attention on his conversation with Patroclus. But now that the door is open, his suspicions have proven accurate—Thanatos, the soft-spoken, well-mannered young man that, just a few days ago, had gone out of his way to come and pick Zagreus up from work to ensure that he wouldn’t be walking home in the dark, is shouting. At first, he’d thought that the lad was shouting at his mother, which would just be unconscionable. _No-one_ ought to speak to Nyx with such a tone. But then, they round the corner, and Achilles sees that Thanatos is actually on his phone—

Thanatos does not look well. Which is understandable, considering the severity of his injuries, but still… Achilles’ heart breaks a little to see him in a neck brace and sling, leaning heavily on Nyx’s arm because the medicine makes him unsteady on his feet. He remembers the first time that the hospital had prescribed him morphine, and how _ill_ it’d made him feel. If what Zagreus had said the other day was true, and Thanatos _were_ experiencing symptoms like hot flashes, he probably shouldn’t be out of bed… or, you know, screaming into the receiver on his cellphone.

It takes him another moment to realize that the lad is on the other end of the line.

“No, Zag! You don’t get to make me feel guilty for this!” Thanatos’ skin is flushed an unhealthy red. Nyx rubs a soothing hand up and down his back, carefully leading him over to the couch. “You promised me that you’d never just take off without a word again, and what did you do?”

He can hear Zagreus sniffling on the other end of the line, “ _I-I’m sorry, Than… please don’t yell. I know that I fucked up, but I… I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t think that he’d come to your apartment—”_

“That’s just it, Zag. You didn’t _think_. Period. The end.” Thanatos’ entire body is _quaking_. Every last inch of him is radiating pain and discomfort. “You never stop to consider, even for just one minute, the impact that your actions might have on other people. _My landlord is threatening to pull my lease_!”

Achilles frowns. He feels like they’re intruding on a private conversation, despite the fact that he’s almost certain he’d still be able to hear Thanatos screaming from anywhere else in the house. He turns to Nyx, who beckons them both into the adjoining kitchen—it’s not _all_ that far away, but it still gives Thanatos a little bit of space (and allows Nyx to be near-enough to help, should Thanatos need it). For a long time, Nyx doesn’t speak as she flutters around the kitchen, grabbing various odds and ends. It’s only when she sets a kettle on to boil that she acknowledges them at all.

“Thank you. For texting me, that is.” She says, her voice soft. She begins to rummage through the various teas she has displayed in a wrought iron rack on her counter, “He’s not exaggerating. His landlord _is_ threatening to pull his lease. One of his neighbors called the police for a domestic disturbance coming from his unit.”

Patroclus’ dark eyes widen, “What? You’re kidding.” Despite the current yelling, they both know that Thanatos is a good kid. The idea of a domestic disturbance coming from his apartment was… “What happened?”

“ _Hades_ happened.” Achilles doesn’t think he’s ever heard so much _disgust_ permeate the older woman’s voice. “Apparently, he and Zagreus had a fight, which is nothing new. But this time, Zagreus took off mid-fight, and Hades came looking for him in the one place he assumed Zagreus would be—”

Achilles’ frown intensifies, “Wait… so Thanatos didn’t know that Zagreus was missing?”

“Until Hades showed up on his doorstep screaming about it? No. He’d been under the assumption that Zagreus was going to the store to buy groceries while he took a nap. He woke up to Hades attempting to beat his door down.” Nyx sighs, “Patroclus, can you put this heating pad in the microwave for a minute and a half? Thank you.”

Patroclus has just started the microwave when he asks, “Have they… been going at it like this, at this time?” Quite honestly, Achilles had never pegged Thanatos for the yelling type. Hypnos, maybe, but not Thanatos—

“Since I helped him into the car, yes.” Nyx sighs, “The conversation started out rather peaceful, until Zagreus let it slip that he’s all the way in California—”

Achilles’ eyes widen, “ _California_?”

“He emptied out his savings account, and bought a ticket to California.” Nyx says, “He said that he’d already called you and told you that he was quitting his job at the gym, and Thanatos assumed that that meant he wasn’t planning on coming back—which, I understand where he’s coming from.”

Patroclus frowns, “Is there a reason he would be running to California?”

Nyx nods, “Yes, well… There is, though it seems a bit… _foolish_.”

“Isn’t… the lad’s mother in California?” Achilles asks. He seems to remember Nyx saying something to that effect when she’d told him the story of Zagreus running away the first time.

“She is, yes.” Nyx says. “But… something tells me that that’s not where he’s headed.”

Nyx refuses to offer anything else by way of explanation, leaving Achilles to draw his own conclusions. Something had happened that was serious enough to make the lad flee to the other side of the country, but none of them knew exactly _what_ had happened. The screaming from the living room comes to a rather abrupt end, and Nyx checks in quickly to make sure that that wasn’t because Thanatos had passed out from pain. Thanatos is, thankfully, still conscious—but he is crying, and his phone is sitting on the floor across the room (the screen is a literal spiderweb of shattered glass). Nyx brings him the cup of tea that she’d prepared, as well as the hot compress that Patroclus had warmed, and dries his face some tissues.

Achilles turns to Patroclus. He doesn’t know how to handle everything that Nyx has thrown at him right now. Despite Patroclus’ best efforts, he’s still worried about the lad—even more so now that Nyx has told them that he’d just run off without so much as a word, or any sort of indication of where he was going. He’d only disclosed that he’d gone to California because they’d been in the middle of a heated argument, and he’d spent every last dime that he’d been saving up for a new car in order to get there.

This… might be a bit more serious than either of them had originally thought.

* * *

Patroclus decides to take Achilles home, to allow Nyx to be able to focus on taking care of her injured son. He calls Briseis, who agrees to take the kids home with her so that they can have some time to themselves. As soon as they’re home… Achilles collapses into his favorite recliner, earning a dissatisfied grumble from Chiron, who’d been lazing along the back of the chair. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s tired—and he’d very much like to take another nap. This whole business of trying to determine what had happened with Zagreus, and why he’d run all the way to California, was absolutely exhausting. He still wants to call the lad, just to make sure that everything is alright and that he’s not in any danger…

“Would you like to… talk about what happened back there?” Patroclus asks. He has a cup of water for Achilles—Achilles is feeling better, but he doesn’t want to become dehydrated, so he takes it. “I have to admit… I wasn’t expecting to hear all that. It seems… I don’t know, out of character for him.”

Achilles shakes his head, “I… I can’t say that I’m the best judge of anyone’s character, especially someone that I’ve only known for a handful of months.” He stares into the water, “But… I can honestly say that this was the last thing that I was expecting from him.”

Patroclus is silent for a moment, before venturing, “You know… I didn’t get the chance to meet him in person, but… we talked on the phone that one time, and you’ve talked about him plenty… and, well… he seems like a good kid.”

“He is.” Of that, Achilles has no doubt. Even if he was only good to him, the lengths that Zagreus went to to ensure his comfort could not just be overlooked. He’d always done his best to make sure that Achilles’ needs were accounted for, without making him feel bad about his relatively new handicap.

“When he’d called, the other morning…” Patroclus trails off, remembering. “He’d been so upset about Thanatos’ injury. If you’d told me that something would happen less than a week later that would make him abandon that boy while he was still recovering—”

“Whatever transpired between him and Hades must’ve been really bad.” Achilles concedes. “The lad told me how hard it was to get back in Thanatos’ good graces after the last time that he’d—”

Patroclus raises a brow, “He’s done this before?”

Achilles nods, “I don’t know all of the details, but Nyx mentioned that Zagreus ran away once before, to go find his mother. He was a bit old to run away properly, but… I suppose it still counts, since the whole point was to get away from his father. But his mother kicked him out after a week—”

Patroclus’ eyes widen, “She kicked him out?”

“Yeah…” It had surprised Achilles, too, at the time. He’d hoped that the lad’s mother would be a bit… _softer_ than Hades, but that didn’t appear to be the case. “Like I said, I don’t know all the details. But… that’s the gist of it.”

He likes to think that Persephone had tried to send her son home after Hades had come calling. Perhaps she hadn’t known that Zagreus had run away—that didn’t seem like the kind of information that the lad would readily admit to. After all, he’d danced around the topic with Achilles, himself—admitting that he’d hurt Thanatos in the past when he’d left without a word, while keeping most of the details regarding the reasons for his sudden departure to himself. Achilles hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t felt like it was his place and, moreover, he understood more than anyone that there were just some things that you kept close to the vest. Either the lad would tell him about it, or he wouldn’t. Though he’d already opened up about so much, Achilles suspected that he would open up about this, too, in due time…

Still, it made his chest ache to think of how devastated the lad must’ve been to have Thanatos tear into him like that. Not that Thanatos didn’t have every right to feel the way that he did—the lad _had_ abandoned him when he was at his most vulnerable, after, as Thanatos had put it, ‘promising to never take off without a word again’. Achilles does not doubt that it must have been horrifying to wake up from an opioid-induced nap to someone banging on your door, demanding that you produce a person you didn’t even know was missing…

If Zagreus had already been in California when he’d called, that meant that he would’ve had to have left sometime that morning. Possibly earlier. Which meant that he would’ve been fighting with Hades right around the time that… Achilles tenses, the glass of water trembling in his hands. A bit of the water splashes over the side of the cup and splatters over his pants. Distantly, he registers Patroclus cursing, before standing up to rush into the kitchen to fetch a dishtowel… or paper towels… or _something_ to try and contain the spill.

Chiron choses that moment to jump up onto the arm of the recliner and try to stick his nose into the cup.

Patroclus returns a moment later to carefully pry the cup out of Achilles’ hands. He replaces it with a warm cloth, straight out of their dryer. “There. That should sop up most of the water.” Achilles is grateful that he lets him handle the mess himself. He’s not sure how well he’d handle being touched right now.

“I would like to…” He stops mid-sentence, clears his throat. “I would like to buy new furniture for the office at the gym.” The statement seems to be coming out of left-field, but… he trusts that Patroclus will understand.

Patroclus hums, “We can go to IKEA, pick out a couple of new couches—”

“No!” His voice is far too loud, considering that his husband is literally within arm’s reach. But the idea of purchasing another couch fills him with an indescribable _panic_ , like his entire being is a Jenga puzzle teetering on the brink of collapse. “I want armchairs. Nice… single-seater… armchairs.”

Realization dawns on his husband’s face, “Yes. I think a set of armchairs would look lovely down there. I could even take some time off and come assemble them for you. Wear a tank top and sweats and let you ogle my muscles while you order me around and have me rearrange all of the furniture in the office.”

There was a time, not too long ago, where Achilles would’ve easily been able to move all of that furniture himself. He tries not to dwell on it, “You sure you won’t throw your back out, love?”

Patroclus rolls his eyes, “I’m not _that_ out of shape. Just because I don’t work in a gym doesn’t mean that I can’t handle a little bit of manual labor now and again.” He says.

Achilles sticks out his tongue, “I’ll be holding you to that.”

Patroclus knows full-well that Achilles is more than capable of assembling a couple of IKEA armchairs. Achilles had always been skilled with his hands, and for some reason, decoding the confusing (and often contradictory) diagrams that were IKEA product assembly instructions just seemed to come naturally to him. Most of the furniture in their bedroom, and in Pyrrhus’ room, had come from IKEA and had been carefully assembled by Achilles—with the aid of a bottle of wine. But Achilles is able to recognize that this is Patroclus’ way of saying that Achilles doesn’t need to face the office, and what happened there, alone. The room will be much less scary if the two of them are in it together, laughing as Patroclus fails to follow some admittedly rather convoluted instructions.

There are not words to describe how much he loves this man.

When he feels a bit more in control, Patroclus offers him the glass of water once again. He takes another sip. “I, um…” Achilles lowers his eyes, “I _am_ sorry that I ran out on you like that.” Patroclus furrows his brows, until, a second later, realization dawns in his dark eyes. “All you ever do is help me, and the one time you need me to do the same—”

Patroclus shakes his head, “Don’t talk like that, love. You help me plenty, just by being you.” He says. “If you hadn’t left, I would never have known that something was wrong. Or… it would’ve taken me a lot longer to figure it out, at least.” He concedes. “We both need to get better about communicating with each other.”

“Communication is important…” Achilles lowers his eyes, staring into his cup of water once more. Perhaps now would be a good time to bring up one of the suggestions the crisis counselor had made? “If we’re going to start this… _communication_ thing now… can I… ask you something?”

Patroclus furrows his brows, “Okay. Yeah, sure. I… wasn’t really expecting you to have anything else right this second, but… I’m all ears. What’s on your mind?”

Achilles takes a deep breath, “How would you feel about attending couple’s counseling with me?”


	19. Hector, the World's Worst Not-Friend

Patroclus’ eyes widen. It seems as if Achilles’ request had caught him off-guard, and his brain is struggling to process the words and formulate an appropriate response. It makes sense—the last several hours had been physically and emotionally draining for the both of them, and while the air was considerably clearer between them, it had certainly come at a cost. And while he didn’t want things to build up between them to the point where their only outlet was another fight of that caliber… perhaps he should’ve waited until they’d both had the chance to get a proper night’s sleep to ask Patroclus such an important question. He’s about to say as much—that he wasn’t expecting Patroclus to have an answer for him then and there, that he just wanted him to know that the offer was on the table—when Patroclus takes his hands in his and squeezes lightly.

“I think that that would be an excellent idea.” He says, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a small smile. “Would you like me to set up an appointment? Or would it make you feel better to be in charge of that?” Achilles’ heart warms at the offer. What did he ever do to deserve someone as soft and considerate as his love?

Twenty years together, and he still didn’t know. But he had no intention of taking that affection for granted, not now that he realized how very close he’d come to losing it. It wouldn’t be easy, but… he had to try. He didn’t want the next time that Patroclus talked to Briseis’ father to be to have him draw up an _actual_ petition for divorce. He’d been with Patroclus for so long—more than half of his life, now—he didn’t know what he would do if he woke up one morning to find that Patroclus’ scrubs were no longer tucked away in their drawers, his toothbrush was no longer sitting beside Achilles’ in the bathroom, his cooking was no longer sitting in Tupperware on the bottom shelves of the refrigerator. If he really, _truly_ , wanted to leave… Achilles didn’t think he had it in him to stop him, but… god, he hoped it never reached that point.

“I… would you mind making the appointment?” He’s not feeling particularly talkative. Between talking to the crisis counselor and the police officer, and the fight that they’d had at Nyx’s house… He’d be more than happy to never have to talk again. “I don’t want to have to think about talking with anyone for a while.”

Patroclus hums, leaning forward to brush his lips over Achilles’ forehead, “That’s fine, love. That’s why I asked. Take a couple more sips of that water for me, and then we can head to bed, alright?”

“You’re going to be coming with?” Achilles doesn’t mean to sound quite so surprised. It’s Patroclus’ bed, too, after all. Perhaps it has something to do with how adamant Patroclus had been about giving him his space back at Nyx’s house?

“Err… I mean, if that’s alright? I’d planned on using one of the sleeping bags and camping out on the floor next to the bed—” Achilles frowns. Patroclus is in better shape than he is, despite the fact that he’d apparently put on weight (Achilles doesn’t see it, and doesn’t believe it, but if Patroclus says it’s so…). But he’ll _definitely_ hurt his back if he sleeps on the floor.

Achilles shakes his head, “Pat… you’re _not_ sleeping on the floor.” He says.

Patroclus’ dark eyes flicker to their couch, “I mean… I don’t have a problem sleeping on the couch, if you’d prefer. I just…” He bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood to the surface, “No, this isn’t about me. If you would prefer that I spend the night out here, just say the word. I don’t mind.”

Achilles blinks. Weren’t they _just_ saying how they _both_ need to work on their communication skills? “If there’s something that you need to get off of your chest, I’m all ears.”

His tongue darts out to lap up the blood beading on his lip, “You don’t need to worry about it, love. Really.”

“If it’s bothering you, then yeah… I think I do.” Despite the fact that he’s been sleeping the whole damn day, he can feel exhaustion creeping up on him once again. And yet… he knows that he won’t be able to sleep, knowing that there’s something on Patroclus’ mind that the other feels disinclined to share.

Despite the fact that things are most definitely better between them, the fight that they’d had had dredged up a lot of negative emotions, as well. Achilles is feeling incredibly raw and vulnerable—like someone had peeled back his flesh and begun poking and prodding at his exposed bits. He can only imagine how Patroclus must be feeling, considering the number of horrible things that he’d said. God, he’d called his husband a _slut_. Bile rises in the back of his throat as he recalls the look of absolute heartbreak and horror on Patroclus’ face as the word had spilled over his lips. He hadn’t meant it, of course he hadn’t, but sometimes, when his mouth starts moving, it’s hard to force it to _stop_. He says horrible things that he can’t take back just because the fit of anger or hurt that inspired them had passed.

Much as he might want to, he can’t just apologize and make the hurt that he’d caused Patroclus go away. He wonders if this is what is inspiring his current reluctance to speak on what’s troubling him. If whatever it is angers Achilles, will he lash out and start another fight? The fight that they’d already had is just now catching up to him, and he doesn’t think he _could_ start another, even if he might’ve wanted to. And he certainly doesn’t _want_ to. But the fact that he might’ve inspired that fear in Patroclus in the first place is heartbreaking—the very _last_ thing that he wants is for Patroclus to be afraid to come to him with his troubles.

But… isn’t that what’s _been_ happening, since Achilles came home with a bullet lodged in his heel?

Patroclus takes a deep breath, before admitting, “I’d like to be in the room with you, if that’s alright. I don’t need to be in the bed—or even anywhere _near_ the bed—I just… I want to make sure that you’re alright, that nothing happens—and I _know_ that nothing is going to happen, not here, in our safe place, but…”

Achilles’ heart shatters for an entirely different reason. He doesn’t know why it never occurred to him that Patroclus would be upset about not being able to protect him from what’d happened, but now that it’s been lain before him plain… “Pat… I never said that I didn’t want you in the room. You can even join me on the bed, if you’d like.”

Patroclus’ releases Achilles’ hands to rake a hand through his hair. “I… are you certain that that won’t make you feel too uncomfortable? The last thing that I want is for you to feel pressured—”

“I know.” Achilles nods, “In case you’d forgotten, we’ve already done this whole song and dance back at Nyx’s, when I—” He pops his cheek obscenely, causing a furious blush to stain Patroclus’ dark cheeks.

“Y-Yes, I…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “T-Thank you for that, by the way.”

Achilles laughs so hard at that that for a second, it actually sounds like he’s choking. He flops back in his recliner, tears brewing in the corners of his sea-glass colored eyes. “Did you _really_ just thank me for giving you a blowjob? You act like it’s a _chore_ to suck your dick.” He takes a deep, wheezing breath, “You’re welcome, idiot.”

“In my defense…” the corner of Patroclus’ mouth quirks up into a small smile, “your mouth is _much_ more pleasing than a fleshlight.” Achilles snorts—he should _hope_ that his mouth was better than some lifeless silicone.

“You _have_ acquired quite the collection of toys, haven’t you?” He’d found them one afternoon, when rooting through the contents of their closet. Patroclus had hidden them incredibly well—mostly because Pyrrhus could be relentless in his hunt for Christmas and birthday presents. “We should try some of them out someday. Together.”

Patroclus blinks, “We should… _what_?”

Achilles snorts, “God, sometimes you’re still just like that blushy virgin that didn’t know how to tell me that he wanted to suck my cock.” It’s endearing to know that, after so many years, Patroclus is still so much like the boy he fell in love with. It also makes his chest ache, because…

Well, he’s so _different_. And it’s not like it’s his fault. He understands the reasons behind his drastic shift in personality, but… Much of the time, it still feels so wrong, to not be that boy that Patroclus fell in love with. Even if that boy _was_ a jackass. He still remembers Hector running face-first into his racket during a tennis match in gym class, his damned nose cracking like a piece of fine china and erupting like a goddamned geyser. And he’d _laughed_. Patroclus had been _furious_ with him afterward, thinking he’d hit the older teen on purpose (to be fair, Hector had been recovering from a broken wrist at the time—a wrist that Achilles absolutely had broken, so…). But that didn’t make the whole situation any less hysterical. If Hector were a little less clumsy, he wouldn’t have a giant crook in his nose to this day. And an understandable aversion to tennis rackets. And Achilles.

Patroclus had fallen in love with the boy who’d spent no small part of his high school career teetering on the brink of expulsion. His life had derailed the moment that his grades slipped (though, let’s be honest, his grades had never been anything to write home about) and the track coach had booted him from the team. They’d been friends long before anything romantic had developed between them—Patroclus had been convinced, right up to the end, that Achilles could be capable of so much _more_ if he just took the time to devote himself properly to a task.

Even with Patroclus’ help, Achilles’ grades barely improved. In fact, some of his grades got _worse_ , simply because he failed to dedicate all of his attention to the task at hand (why focus on studying that week’s vocabulary words when you could stare at Patroclus’ handsome face, instead?). Briseis hadn’t been surprised that he hadn’t gotten into college, but she _had_ been surprised that he’d lied and told Patroclus that he filled out a couple of applications and was just waiting to hear back. He’d never had any intention of telling Patroclus that he’d enlisted, especially not after Pat was accepted into UPenn.

And then Patroclus had proposed, and all of his non-existent plans had gone right out the window.

He makes a grabby motion for his cane. Nyx had been kind enough to retrieve it from the gym, after everything was said and done. Patroclus brings it over, slipping the handle into Achilles’ hand. “I would like for you to come and lay down with me.” He says, his voice firm. “And before you start objecting… we won’t know until we try, right?”

Patroclus swallows hard, “If… If you’re sure.” Achilles finishes his water, and Patroclus takes the glass, “I won’t be mad if you… well, if you push me off the side of the bed or something. Just as long as your comfortable and you feel safe.”

It takes Achilles a couple of tries to be able to stand up. He’d missed two doses of pain medication while everything was happening, and he was paying for it dearly. “O-Ow!” Patroclus is there in an instant, offering him an extra bit of support. “Fucking… is it too late for me to take a pill?”

Patroclus is silent for a moment as he thinks, “I… wouldn’t recommend taking any morphine. But you can probably take one of the arthritis strength Tylenol, to take the edge off.”

“I…” the Tylenol isn’t going to _touch_ this, but he supposes that it’s better than nothing. “Would you mind bringing one in from the bathroom? I think I’m going to just… lay down for a little while.”

“Of course.”

In the end, Patroclus helps him make his way to the bedroom, easing him down on the side of the mattress and hoisting his injured leg up on top of a stack of their softest pillows. Achilles is half-tempted to ask the other man to help him change into something a little bit more comfortable to sleep in, but soon decides that he doesn’t actually care. It feels so _nice_ to be back in his own bed, within arms’ reach of Patroclus’ pillow—knowing that his husband is down the hall, retrieving his pills. Nothing else matters. A moment later, Patroclus returns with a small paper cup filled with water, a Tylenol capsule, and a small roll-on applicator filled with various essential oils known for their pain relieving properties. Achilles takes the pill, before crushing the cup and tossing it in the trash can.

Patroclus takes a seat at the foot of the bed, before gingerly lifting Achilles’ leg onto his lap. He takes a moment to observe the map of scar tissue upon his heel, before unscrewing the cap on the roll-on and promising, “This might feel a little weird, but it should help to numb the pain enough for you to sleep until you can take a morphine.”

A handful of minutes later, Achilles it out like a light.

* * *

Achilles doesn’t sleep for as long as he’d like. He can tell that it’s early in the morning—too early for even Patroclus to be awake—and he’s anxious to roll over and fall back into the blissful hold of sleep. Unfortunately, sleep seems determined to evade him for the time being, and so he reaches over to where his phone is charging on the bedside table and starts to scroll through social media. Like many of the pictures sitting on his desk at the office, he has a number of friends on Facebook whom he hasn’t spoken to in _years_. Case in point, Hector. Although they hadn’t actually spoken since high school, Hector had sent him a friend request shortly after he’d been injured. Patroclus had convinced him that the request was innocuous, and had encouraged him to accept it—he claimed that it was Hector’s way of ‘extending the olive branch’, so to speak.

Achilles knew that it was just the older man’s way of rubbing his perfect little life in Achilles’ face.

Hector had also joined the military after high school. Unlike Achilles, he was still active duty. His wife, Andromache, was one of the first nurses that’d tended to Achilles after his first major operation. So, _of course_ Hector discovered that he’d been medically discharged, and had sent him a fucking _fruit basket_ as a means of consolation. Included in the fruit basket had been a picture of their newborn son, Astyanax. Hector had made sure to make it explicitly clear that he’d been home for the birth of his son, and had even had the chance to name him. Achilles had missed both of his children’s births.

Achilles is also friends with the lad. He knew that it was probably a bit odd, to be Facebook friends with one’s boss, but… he and the lad had never had a typical boss-employee relationship. After checking for any new, noteworthy updates in his ‘friends’ lives, he searches up the lad’s page to find… oh dear. The last time that he’d seen Zagreus’ Facebook profile, his profile picture had been of himself and Thanatos, with Thanatos looking red-faced and miserable as the lad held his hand. It was a sweet picture, that had garnered quite a few likes from friends and family alike. And it’d been replaced with—

Patroclus’ phone starts buzzing on the bedside table. With a grunt, Patroclus’ eyes flutter open, ever so slowly.

“Achilles? What’re you doing awake at this hour?” Patroclus looks like he wants to follow that up with ‘what am _I_ doing awake at this hour’. Instead, he blindly grabs for his phone, “What the fuck… Oh, it’s Hypnos.”

“Hypnos?” He knows that Thanatos’ twin brother works under his husband at their practice, but he doesn’t think that he’s ever heard of Hypnos contacting Patroclus personally if there were an issue. Patroclus answers the call and puts the phone on speaker, his brows furrowing in frustration and concern.

“Hypnos? What’s the matter? I didn’t think it was possible for you to be awake before noon.” Patroclus quips.

 _“Oh, hiya boss.”_ There’s something… _off_ about Hypnos’ voice. The usually cheery tone now sounds like nails grating on a chalkboard… there is some poorly contained malice lingering just beneath the surface. _“I just wanted to call to tell ya that I’m going to be cashing in on some of the PTO I have stored up. I have some… important business that needs to be tended to.”_

Patroclus frowns, “Business? Hypnos, you know that you’re supposed to provide me with two weeks’ notice if you want to cash in on your PTO.” He doesn’t sound upset about the fact that Hypnos wants to cash in—he seems more… _confused_ … as to what could’ve caused him to need to do it so quickly.

 _“Yes, well… you see… this is a very delicate situation, and I don’t have two weeks to sit around and watch it blow up more than it already has.”_ Hypnos hisses. Achilles cannot help but wonder if this has anything to do with what he’d seen on the lad’s Facebook page.

In the distance, he can hear the sound of soft sniffling. Given the tone of their current conversation, he doubts that Hypnos is the one that’s crying, which means… Oh, he really hopes that Thanatos hadn’t seen. At the rate that this situation is deteriorating, he doesn’t know if there’s much that he can do to help the lad pick up the broken pieces of their relationship. He remembers when the lad had first come to him, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and told him that he wanted to have a _healthy_ relationship with Thanatos. He didn’t want to fall into the same traps that his parents had, did not want to make the same mistakes that he’d made with Megaera. He wanted to be happy together. And it seemed like, just when they reached a point where they might be happy, everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.

When he comes back to, it’s to Patroclus telling Hypnos, _“_ …I can’t condone murder. Seriously, if you’re planning to kill someone, please don’t tell me.” The sounds of despair only grow louder. He can hear Hypnos making soft shushing noises on the other end of the line.

Achilles’ heart aches for the poor young man, though he’s unsure whether the distress he’s experiencing is due to Zagreus’ sudden departure, the pain that he’s experiencing from the herniated discs in his neck, or some combination of the two. _“I won’t kill him. That’ll just upset Thanatos even more. But I_ will _make him regret taking that picture.”_

“What picture?” His eyes flicker over to Achilles, looking for help. Achilles shows him his phone screen. He curses underneath his breath, “Okay, that’s not good. But there are a hundred potential explanations for that—”

 _“There is a half-naked man hanging off of my brother’s boyfriend.”_ There’s an incoherent grumble over the other end of the line, _“Sorry, sorry. He’s not your boyfriend. That doesn’t mean that it’s not still allowed to hurt, you know.”_

 _“I’m tired of hurting.”_ Thanatos’ voice is _raw_. It’s probably a side-effect of all the screaming he’d done the day before, but still…

 _“Shh… this isn’t your fault, okay? Just let big brother take care of it.”_ He’s pretty sure he hears Thanatos grumble something about them being the same age, to which Hypnos responds that he is, technically, three and a half minutes older. _“Look, boss-man. I don’t need you to_ condone _anything. I just need you to approve the PTO_.”

Patroclus lets out a long-suffering sigh. He is clearly not awake enough to be dealing with this. “Fine. But I’m only approving five days’ worth, you hear me? You get in there, chew the kid out, and come back to work. One of us has got to be there.” He huffs.

Hypnos is silent for a while, likely awaiting another reminder to not kill Zagreus. When none appear to be forthcoming, he agrees to Patroclus’ terms, _“Whatever ya say, boss-man.”_ And with that, he ends the call.

Patroclus locks his phone and drops it onto his chest, his dark eyes fluttering closed. “What the hell is wrong with that kid?”

“Hypnos or Zagreus?” Because, at this point, he could honestly be talking about either.

Patroclus doesn’t answer. Instead, he slips Achilles’ phone from his hand and looks at the offending picture again. Zagreus is standing in front of a pristine bathroom mirror, grinning from ear to ear as an unfamiliar man rests his chin on Zagreus’ bare shoulder. You can tell from the way that the man’s back and shoulders are hunched that he’s about six or seven inches taller than Zagreus, with intricate blue, green, and purple tattoos spider-webbing up his leanly muscular arms. His long, sandy-blond hair is pulled up on the side of his head in a sort of messy, lopsided ponytail, and his tongue is lolling out of his mouth to reveal a healthy-sized barbell. He does bear a _bit_ of a resemblance to Thanatos, in the slim, sharp lines of his face and his sleek build, but otherwise…

Patroclus hands his phone back, “Hypnos is going to kill him.” He flops back down onto his pillow, trying and failing to make himself comfortable. “You see, now I regret telling you not to call him. Because he couldn’t keep it in his damn pants for five minutes, and now Hypnos is going to kill him, and I’m going to be a fucking accessory after the fact.”

Achilles bites his lip, “I mean… technically, you can only be an accessory after the fact _after_ someone commits a crime. I’m pretty sure it’s something different if you knew that someone was going to commit a crime and didn’t try to stop them.”

Patroclus blinks up at the ceiling, “No, you’re right. This makes me an accomplice. That’s _significantly_ worse.”

“Hypnos _did_ say that he didn’t have any intention of killing the lad.” Achilles points out. “He just wanted to talk to him, before things got even more out of hand. Honestly, I don’t think that it’s a half-bad idea—”

“Achilles,” from the look on Patroclus’ face, it’s safe to assume that he’s missing something fairly big, “take another look at that picture and tell me what you see.”

He’s… not entirely certain what it is that he’s supposed to be looking for. That is, until he notices the incredibly sharp, defined line of the mysterious man’s ‘v’… okay, Hypnos may have been being a bit generous when he said that there was a half-naked man hanging off of Zagreus. That man is most definitely naked, with Zagreus strategically placed to hide all of his dangling bits. He scrolls a bit lower, looking through the comments. The post already has a few likes, despite the late hour it was posted. Meg had commented ‘new boyfriend? :/’ which, honestly, was probably how Hypnos and Thanatos had caught wind that something was amiss. There were a few other comments as well, but nothing of note until he reaches a curious comment from the lad’s other uncle, Poseidon. Come to think of it… didn’t he _also_ live out in California?

Patroclus turns to him, resting a hand on his shoulder, “I should’ve let you call him sooner. But I… I really think that you ought to call him, just to check in. You might be the only person that he’s willing to listen to right now.”


	20. A Series of Half-Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't yet, be sure to check out the most recent stand-alone fic in the RC 'verse: [Til Death Do Us Part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29373426/chapters/72155952)
> 
> I know that a lot of you were looking forward to seeing the Charmes wedding at the end of A Hades Christmas Carol. Y'all asked for a Valentine's Day Charmes fic, and so I have fulfilled your request <3 The next chapter will be out soon!

Achilles decides to wait to call the lad until later that morning. He doesn’t think that a couple of hours will do more damage than has already been done, and he wants to ensure that he has the proper mental faculties to deal with whatever it is that has Zagreus all worked up. If his hunch is correct about it having to do with Hades, well…

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind, reminding himself that he needs to sleep before he can be of any use to anyone.

* * *

When Achilles wakes again, it is to a cool bottle of water, a granola bar, and two small, circular pills waiting for him on the bedside table. Patroclus is no longer in bed, having long since become acclimated to ridiculously early mornings. He can hear him in the distance, milling about in the kitchen. He’s cooking something that smells faintly of grease, that _pops_ and _sizzles_ on the cast iron skillet Briseis had bought them as a housewarming gift. Achilles’ stomach rumbles at the thought of freshly cooked bacon, perhaps with some scrambled eggs, and a piece of fruit on the side…

Once upon a time, he could eat all of that and more without a problem. Now, his stomach twists painfully at the mere thought of ingesting so much fat and grease. He won’t begrudge Patroclus for his indulgences, though. He’ll just have to enjoy the rich flavor of his favorite comfort foods vicariously through his husband.

Achilles scoops up his pills and swallows them down with a swig of water, the bitterly-cold liquid numbing his mouth and making his teeth ache. He knows he should drink more, but he’s in no hurry to get out of bed. He’ll likely do everything in his power to prevent it until the pills have had a chance to work their magic.

Setting the bottle back down on the bedside table, he reaches for the granola bar and begins to peel away the wrapper.

He should call the lad. His tired eyes skirt over to the alarm clock on the bedside table, the bright red LED display flashing the numbers 10:36 back at him. That would make it 7:36AM in California. Would the lad even be awake? It was possible, since he was used to keeping odd hours at the gym—and if he’d been walking to work, as Thanatos had suggested, that would mean that he’d been getting up even _earlier_. Not quite as early as Thanatos, but close enough. He takes a bite of the granola bar, considering. Finally, deciding that the worst-case scenario would have him leaving a message on the lad’s voicemail that he’d never listen to, he grabs his phone and dials the familiar number. Zagreus answers on the third ring, yawning directly into the receiver. Achilles snorts, biting down on his bottom lip in an effort to stifle his own yawn—

 _“Achilles, sir?”_ The lad sounds incredibly tired. Achilles feels a sharp pang of guilt settle low in his belly. He almost wishes that the lad had let the call roll over to voicemail. _“Is everything alright_?”

Achilles takes another bite of his granola bar. “I feel like I should be the one asking you that, lad. Running off to the other side of the country in the middle of the night… that’s not like you.” It occurs to him, as he says this, that perhaps he does not know Zagreus as well as he thinks he does. “What happened?”

Zagreus is silent for a long while. Achilles is just beginning to think that Patroclus may’ve had the wrong idea about him calling, when finally, he comes out with, _“He said that I was taking advantage of you.”_

Achilles blinks, “What was that, now?”

 _“My father, he… we have an agreement of sorts. Thanatos doesn’t know. I didn’t want to tell him in case it fell through, you know? And… well, everything with my old man seems to fall through, in one way or another.”_ Zagreus sighs, sounding a little more awake. _“He told me that he would buy me a new… well, a_ used _car, provided I could hold down a job at the gym for one year.”_ He says.

Okay. That’s… not what Achilles had been expecting. Hadn’t Thanatos been allowing Zagreus to live on his couch rent-free so that he could save up for a new car? “Go on…” Achilles trails off, unsure of what to make of their conversation thus far.

 _“In exchange, I would have to provide him with copies of my paystubs every two weeks—y’know, to prove that I’d actually been showing up and putting in the work?”_ Achilles hums softly, _“Well… part of our arrangement is that I provide him with prior notice if the hours are going to fluctuate, either up or down. He doesn’t like… micromanage my PTO or anything, he just wants to know that I let you know ahead of time that I wouldn’t be coming in.”_

It dawns on him, then, that Zagreus had hardly shown up to work at all in the last week. On the first day of the pay cycle, he’d left early with Thanatos. He’d come to work the next day, only to discover that Thanatos had been hurt on the job and—“Did you attempt to explain to him that there had been extenuating circumstances?”

Zagreus chuckles. His voice sounds raw and broken. _“Yeah. Funny thing about that. I thought it would be a good idea to try and explain the situation to him before he saw the stub and cut me off completely. I forgot that my old man doesn’t listen for shit.”_

Achilles is… conflicted. On the one hand, from the way that Zagreus had described their relationship, he’d been all but convinced that Hades had completely cut him off. To find out now that Hades was actually making an attempt to work with him… it is, admittedly, a lot for him to try and process. On the other hand, Thanatos’ injury was severe, and not the sort of thing that anyone would make-up as an excuse to get out of going to work. He’s seen the way that Zagreus looks at Thanatos; if he can be certain of nothing else, he is confident in the assertion that the lad loves that man more than anything else in the world. He would never wish any harm to befall him, even in a make-believe scenario. Once again, he is overcome by the sinking feeling that he doesn’t know the lad as well as he’d thought…

And what was this about Hades claiming that Zagreus was taking advantage of him?

He decides to cut right to the chase, “Why is there a message in my voicemail with you tendering your resignation, lad?”

 _“Because_ …” Zagreus begins, before trailing off. He tries again, somewhat less confidently. _“Because I got to wondering if maybe he was right, and I was taking advantage of you. Not in the way that he’s thinking, but… you’ve always been so_ nice _to me, sir. And you certainly didn’t have to be.”_ He chuckles brokenly, his voice beginning to crack. _“I know how much of a fuck-up I am.”_

Achilles’ already aching heart _shatters_. “You’re not a fuck-up, Zagreus. You’re… a diamond in the rough.”

Zagreus snorts, _“I can’t even wash towels properly.”_

He winces. He’d been hoping that the lad hadn’t caught on to that… “You just need to practice. You can’t expect to be perfect at everything—especially when you never had the chance to properly learn. If the washing machine thing truly bothered me, I certainly wouldn’t have kept you on for as long as I did—”

 _“A-And I… I_ lied _to you. About my father.”_ Yeah… that one he is decidedly _less_ okay with. Although, he’s hard-pressed to call it a _proper_ lie. It was more of a… half-truth.

“Did your father actually kick you out of his house?” He asks.

 _“Yes.”_ Zagreus doesn’t hesitate… and after a moment, Achilles decides that he believes him. _“Yes, I… that… Yes.”_ He seems like he wants to elaborate further, but cannot find the words. Achilles allows him the chance to piece his way through his conflicting thoughts before pressing onward—

“You do realize that Thanatos is in danger of being evicted because your father showed up at his apartment looking for you, yes?” He doesn’t mean to add salt to the wound, but he needs to be sure that Zagreus understands that his actions have had very real consequences for the people around him.

 _“Yes, I… I know.”_ In an even smaller voice, he admits that Hades only knew that he’d been staying with Thanatos because of a slip of the tongue during the heat of the moment.

“ _And_ that Thanatos thinks you’re cheating on him?” Achilles’ adds.

 _“I… wait, he_ what _?”_ Zagreus shouts, earning a disgruntled moan from a nearby, decidedly _male_ , companion. Is he with the man from the profile picture debacle _right now_? Oh, for the love of…

The lad can, admittedly, be a bit daft at times. Still, it pains him to have to spell out, in explicit detail, why his new Facebook profile picture is particularly problematic. He is in the bathroom, half-naked, with an unfamiliar—and _very naked_ —man cuddling up against his back! Most would regard such a post with open suspicion, but coupled with the fact that he’d also gone in and changed his relationship status to ‘it’s complicated’? Gods, it was like he was _trying_ to make himself look as suspicious as possible! It was no wonder that Thanatos was distraught—he had every reason to believe that Zagreus was sending a _very_ clear message with that picture. They may not have had the chance to put an official title on their relationship before things had gone sour, but now, Zagreus would be lucky if there were any relationship left to come home to.

Achilles could only help him fix so much stupid.

 _“Achilles, sir, you_ have _to believe me when I say that I would_ never—” he cuts off abruptly. Achilles can hear his companion whining on the other end of the line.

 _“What are you doing_ up _this early, man?”_ The other man groans, the bedsprings creaking beneath his weight. _“It’s still dark outside…”_

Zagreus huffs, _“That’s because the curtains are closed, dumbass. The sun rose at like six o’clock in the morning. I think that you were still awake to see it.”_ He can almost hear the way the younger man is rolling his eyes, _“I’m sorry, sir. I… I have to go. But I promise you, the thought of cheating on Thanatos never even crossed my—”_

The call ends abruptly. Achilles assumes that his companion had taken the phone from him and ended the call, content to return to sleep. He stares at the screen for a moment, fighting the instinct to call back just to reprimand him for ending the phone call in such a manner. When Zagreus answered the phones at the gym, he would _never_ be so rude to a potential customer. Achilles had spent _hours_ teaching the lad how to exercise proper phone etiquette. He didn’t get to shirk all of that now just because Achilles was no longer his boss.

He takes another swig of water, yearning for the days when he could use alcohol as a means of helping to digest such a difficult conversation. Now, alcohol, like many of the vices of his youth, could very well kill him. With a sigh, he places the half-empty bottle of water and his phone back on the bedside table and flops back onto the bed.

He falls asleep attempting to convince himself that that conversation had mattered at all.

* * *

When Achilles wakes again, it is to the feel of a little knee pressing into his side. His eyelids flutter open just in time to catch sight of his child tumbling over him with all of the grace of a newborn fawn as he attempts to reach the side of the bed which Patroclus had vacated—very recently, if the warmth still clinging to the sheets was any indication. Why he couldn’t just climb up from the bottom of the bed, Achilles did not know. He seemed to be putting in _a lot_ of extra work for remarkably little reward. Still, so long as he doesn’t crash down on anything _too_ sensitive as he settles in at Achilles’ side, he’s content to let the little boy do as he pleases. His eyes had just begun to flutter shut when the door to the bedroom _whips_ open and Patroclus rushes in, his dark skin glistening with sweat as his chest heaves with each desperate, shuddering inhalation—

“Pyrrhus!” His voice comes out much louder than he’d intended. His dark eyes snap toward Achilles, who is doing a fantastic job of pretending to still be asleep. “What did I tell you? You can come in here and rest, so long as you don’t disturb your father—”

“But _Papa_ ,” the little one whines, his voice grating in the way that only a six-year-old’s voice can. “I just wanted to _snuggle_.” Achilles _almost_ chimes in with a reminder that snuggling does not necessarily involve violently rearranging his internal organs with one’s knee, before he remembers that he’s supposed to be sleeping.

Patroclus sighs, making his way over to the bed. He lifts the little boy up—earning an ear-splitting shriek of displeasure for his efforts—before tucking him back down underneath the blankets. “Just… please be gentle with him, alright? That’s Daddy’s owie leg.” He motions to the leg that Pyrrhus is tucked up against.

 _“I know that_.” Achilles can just imagine the way the little boy is rolling his eyes—the little twerp.

He decides that now is as good a time as any to let the cat out of the bag, “Be nice to your old man. He’s doing his best.” His words are slurred from sleep and thus barely comprehensible, but Pyrrhus doesn’t seem to care.

“Daddy’s awake!” The little boy launches himself at Achilles with such force he nearly takes the both of them off of the side of the bed. So much for being gentle with Achilles’ aching body…

“Mmm… he _is_. But he would very much like to go back to sleep.” He closes his eyes again. He doesn’t understand how he can still be so _tired_ when it feels like he’s already slept for an eternity, but… he can already feel himself starting to drift.

He doesn’t manage to fall back asleep, not completely. He can just barely make out the sound of Patroclus moving around in the kitchen, talking with someone. The other party’s voice is drowned out by the dull roar of their dishwasher, and so it takes him a moment to recognize that he’s talking with Briseis. It makes sense—his husband had likely invited her in for something to drink after she’d dropped off the kids, one thing would have led to another, and… Achilles sucks in a sharp breath. Was that… the sound of glass breaking? The thought of returning to sleep is relegated to the farthest corner of his mind as he sits up a little, straining to hear exactly what was going on down the hall. It doesn’t take him long to realize that Patroclus and Briseis aren’t actually _talking_ at all—they’re fighting, quite violently. What in the world…?

His eyes flit over to the sleeping boy at his side. He doesn’t seem to be aware of the commotion that’s going on down the hall, and continues to sleep soundly, with his head tucked away in the crook of Achilles’ arm. He doesn’t know if he can slide out of the bed without waking him, but his unease continues to grow as something _else_ breaks and Amaltheia starts crying. The baby’s piercing cries are the straw that breaks the camel’s back—carefully, he extracts his arm out from underneath the little boy’s head. Pyrrhus lets out a heartbreaking little whine, before his head hits Patroclus’ pillow and he’s once again out like a light. Achilles watches him for a moment to ensure that he is well and truly asleep, before sitting up and reaching for his cane to slowly ease himself off of the bed.

Gods, every day the bed feels like it’s just a little bit lower. Perhaps, while they’re at IKEA, he might convince Patroclus to invest in a higher bedframe. Just so it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to claw his way up from corpse pose each and every morning—

Achilles’ trek down the hall is by no means fast, or subtle—the rubber stop on the end of his cane makes a distinctive _thud_ against the wooden flooring with every step he takes. Patroclus and Briseis are too deep into it to care. A little closer now, he’s able to make out a bit more regarding the actual substance of their argument. Theseus’ name is tossed around quite a bit. It seems like Briseis was quite disappointed that Patroclus’ little not-date with Theseus didn’t pan out—

“So, what… you’ve just been ignoring all of his texts and calls?” Briseis snaps. Achilles furrows his brows. Had Theseus still been trying to get ahold of Patroclus, even after he’d run out on him in the middle of their not-date? “You can’t just act like nothing happened, Pat.”

“I can absolutely act like nothing happened—because _nothing happened_.” He can’t remember the last time that he’d seen Patroclus this angry. Even when they’d fought back at Nyx’s, he’d just seemed… _sad_. This… This is a proper broiling _fury_.

“So, what? You just went out with him for shits and giggles?” Why is she so concerned about their not-date? It really isn’t any of her business what Patroclus did or didn’t do while out with Theseus, “Look, I know you weren’t really comfortable with the idea, and I’m sorry for pushing you. But I still think that it was good for you to—”

The rest of her sentence is lost as red bleeds before Achilles’ eyes. “You _what_?”

Both Briseis and Patroclus turn to him, looking like a set of deer that had been caught in the headlights. “Achilles,” Patroclus’ voice is raw, straining. “You’re supposed to be sleeping, love.”

Achilles doesn’t even register that Patroclus is speaking. “Where the _fuck_ do you get off, coming into _my_ house and pushing _my_ husband into the arms of another man?” He grits his teeth, pain radiating through his jaw and down the length of his neck. “What? It wasn’t bad enough that you had me thinking he was going to leave—”

Patroclus lays a hand on his shoulder, “Achilles, it’s not what you think—”

“Don’t _touch_ me!” He snaps, yanking himself away from Patroclus’ hand so hard he almost tumbles over. “You! You would’ve had me thinking that all of this was _your_ fault, when in reality, this fucking _bitch_ was over here _enabling_ you!”

Briseis’ features pinch tightly, “You know what? I don’t have to sit here and take this.” She begins to gather up her things, “We can sit down and have a civilized conversation about this when you’re not foaming at the mouth and out for blood—”

Achilles’ answering laugh is broken and hollow. “Give me your keys.”

Anger causes Briseis’ olive cheeks to flush a dark, unforgiving red. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re not coming back here. _Ever_.” He hisses. “Now, hand over your goddamned keys before I reach into your purse and take them off of your keyring myself.” Briseis’ eyes widen when she sees the steely look in Achilles’ eyes—he’s not kidding. Reaching into her purse with trembling hands, she grabs her keyring and begins to remove their housekey.

Patroclus reaches for him again, his hand hovering about a half-inch or so above Achilles’ shoulder. “Achilles, you’re not being fair. Yes, she made a mistake, but she’s a major part of our lives—of our _children’s_ lives. Are you really going to take that away from them?” He asks. Achilles narrows his eyes.

Achilles wavers for a moment, before steeling his resolve. “She’s not going to be a part of their lives anymore.” He hisses, snatching the key from her hands. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

Briseis sits there for a moment, frozen. And then she snaps, “You know, I used to think that you’d changed. That marrying Pat and having children had made you into a better person. But now… now I can see you for what you really are. A petty, narcissistic _shell_ of a man who only cares about the holy trinity of me, myself, and I. And you know what? I was right. Pat _does_ deserve better.”

“ _Fuck you_.” His hand clenches around the handle of his cane—it’s past time for him to have taken the Tylenol he uses to supplement his pain medication.

A few tears leak from the corners of Briseis’ eyes as she gathers up the few belongings she’d brought in with her. “We’ll continue this conversation later, Pat.” And then she’s gone.

Patroclus is just… _staring_ at him, as if this were all somehow _his_ fault. Like she hadn’t waltzed in here after telling him that Patroclus had been talking to her father, _the divorce lawyer_ , and tried to push him into the arms of another man. How could he _ever_ be expected to forgive her for that? Not only that, but… how long had she been attempting to undermine their relationship? Had there been others, before Theseus? Had she tried to make a move on him herself? He knows that Patroclus had said he shouldn’t pay any mind to the bullshit that came out of Deidamia’s mouth, but… perhaps Deidamia had been closer to the truth than Patroclus was willing to admit. Brie watched the kids all the time. She would know, first-hand, the strain that Pat experienced when Achilles came home late, when he pulled away from family activities to be by himself—

Gods, how could he have been so _foolish_? He tugs at his butchered hair, shuffling over to a nearby barstool in an effort to take some of the pressure off his throbbing leg. He should have been able to see this coming from a mile away. He should have known that it couldn’t be as easy as Patroclus was suggesting. And the worst part? Patroclus had _lied_. He’d _lied_ to cover Briseis’ ass, the one time that Achilles desperately needed him to be telling the truth.

It wasn’t a big lie, but it was a lie nonetheless. And Achilles didn’t know how to process that.

Too much had happened that morning for him to just be able to take this lying down.

Patroclus leans heavily on the island counter, “I know that I should have told you.” He begins. And he’s absolutely right, he should have. “But I knew that you would react like this, and…” He trails off, uncertainty reflected in his dark eyes. “Briseis has been really good to us. And she loves those kids. Everything she did, she did from a place of love—”

“Yeah,” Achilles scoffs, “love for you.” He twirls her key in-between his fingers for a moment, before chucking it across the room. It bounces off the far wall and lands in the trash can.

His husband shakes his head, “She loves you, too.”

“Yes, because my petty, narcissistic ass is so very loveable.” Achilles rolls his eyes, “I’m going back to check on Amaltheia, and then I’m going back to bed.”

He grabs an apple, knowing that he’ll feel better if he has a little something more than just granola and water in his belly, and braces himself to stand up. “ _I_ love you.” Patroclus says, his voice cracking like he isn’t sure those words carry the same meaning that they had the night before.

Achilles doesn’t say it back. He has a crying baby who needs tending to.


	21. A Walk Down Memory Lane

It takes Achilles a moment to move the rocking chair over next to the crib. He doesn’t understand _why_ it keeps getting moved, when he’s mentioned on numerous occasions that he doesn’t trust himself to hold their daughter while standing—he can barely maintain his balance as is, adding a squirming infant into the mix was just asking for trouble.

Perhaps Briseis had been moving it back, just to spite him. He’d believe anything, after the bullshit he’d just heard.

Amaltheia’s little face is flushed, her dark skin streaked with tears and snot. He cleans her face with a soft, unscented baby wipe (they’d learned the hard way that Amaltheia’s skin was particularly sensitive to even the subtlest of perfumes—caring for a hive-riddled infant was a miserable experience for all involved, and one that he would like to avoid repeating, if at all possible). She doesn’t like the cold of the wipe, but she does seem to be a little bit happier once her face is clean. Achilles understands. He’d be grouchy too if his face were caked in snot and he were powerless to do anything about it. At least it hadn’t been bad enough to warrant use of the infant nasal aspirator. That had her screaming bloody murder before the device even touched her nose…

Still, she’s obviously distressed, and the knowledge that he’d played some part in it, however small, made Achilles’ chest ache. She and Pyrrhus didn’t deserve this. They hadn’t asked to be born into all of this pain and strife. Pyrrhus, at least, had had a few years with him before everything had begun to fall apart at the seams, but Amaltheia… He wishes that there were something he could do to make her sadness go away, to make all of _this_ better. But… with a sinking feeling in his gut, he realizes that he doesn’t even know how to make _himself_ feel better. Much as he wants to believe that these feelings of inadequacy had been born from the wound in his heel, Briseis’ words had caused him to start thinking and the truth was…

The truth was that Achilles hadn’t been happy in a very long time.

* * *

_“Achilles, this is Briseis. She sits next to me in my Statistics class.” A petite young woman with olive skin and reddish-brown hair is seated at Patroclus’ side—in Achilles’ seat. “Brie, this is my best friend, Achilles.” Achilles’ hands clench down on the edges of his lunch tray, which is practically overflowing with food._

_Patroclus’ father doesn’t provide his son with enough money for lunch, so Achilles buys extra so that they can share._

_He’ll be damned if he’s going to let Patroclus just_ not _eat._

_“It’s nice to meet you. Pat here has told me so much about you.” She smiles. Achilles hates her already. An awkward silence follows, until she clears her throat and asks, “Um… would you like to… sit with us, maybe? Unless you’d prefer to eat your lunch hovering over the table like that. In which case… hover away.”_

_"You're in my seat." Achilles says. Briseis blinks, her pretty smile faltering. Achilles' lips twist down into a frown—perhaps she hadn't heard him correctly? "You're in my seat, Briseis." He repeats. Patroclus is glaring at him now, color staining his dark cheeks. "Move."_

_Briseis furrows her brows, "Dude, seriously? There's like... ten other perfectly good seats at this table. If you're so upset about not being able to sit next to Patroclus, you should've gotten here earlier." When he does not respond, she presses harder, “Seriously, it's a_ seat _. Calm your tits and sit your ass down before your lunch gets cold."_

_After a moment, Achilles slams his tray down onto the table hard enough to knock over Patroclus' water bottle. The cap falls off, causing water to spill all over Briseis' statistics textbook. Achilles snorts, "You certainly have questionable taste in friends."_

_The young woman scowls, "He certainly does."_

* * *

After that, Briseis had made a point of getting down to the cafeteria before Achilles to snag the seat next to Patroclus.

It was stupid. It was petty. And it got under Achilles’ skin like nothing else. The only thing that made it better was the realization that he could stare into Patroclus’ eyes while he read some book he’d checked out of the library to read for fun (Achilles would never understand the allure of libraries, until he’d managed to convince Patroclus to hide away with him deep in the dust-ridden aisles of the non-fiction section for a quick and messy blowjob during study hall one quiet April afternoon…). It turned out that it was incredibly difficult to make eyes at one’s boyfriend whilst you were sitting next to them. It was also a lot easier to play footsie underneath the table. Sure, he occasionally came into contact with Brie’s foot, earning a swift and painful kick to the shin, but…

Well, that was a sacrifice he’d been willing to make. Back then, at least. Now, the idea of her coming at him with those wickedly high heels of hers made him cringe. All it would take as a well-placed blow to the wrong part of his leg and he’d be incapacitated for hours. As evidenced by the whole situation with Deidamia…

Once the rocking chair is butting up against the side of the crib, he sits down heavily, thankful to have the chance to take some of the pressure off of his aching leg. He unhooks the safety locks on the side of the crib and slides the wall down, allowing him to scoop the squirming babe into his arms. Her blankie comes loose and tumbles down into a messy pile on the stack, leaving her in her soft, powder-pink onesie which, ironically, read: ‘My Aunt’s a Bad Influence (And I Love It)’. Briseis had bought a matching one for Pyrrhus in powder blue. Achilles wonders if he can throw both of them out without the little boy noticing and asking too many questions. Gods, _he’s_ still having trouble wrapping his head around everything that’d happened. He doesn’t know how he’d even begin to try to explain it to Pyrrhus.

He doesn’t think ‘Your aunt is a meddling bitch whose lucky that she’s also the biological mother of my children, because _otherwise_ , I would’ve unleashed absolute hell’ is quite the right tone. The boy loves Briseis, and will undoubtedly have questions, but…

Right now, Achilles just needs to breathe. _And_ get Amaltheia to stop crying.

Not necessarily in that order.

* * *

_“I’ll never understand what you see in him.” Briseis shakes her head, as Achilles leans in to steal a quick kiss before heading off to class. Or, more accurately, to skip class to go home and raid Thetis' liquor cabinet before she came home from work._

_Achilles flips her off, "Last time I checked, you didn't_ have _to understand, seeing as_ _my_ _relationship with_ _my_ _boyfriend is none of_ _your_ _business." He knows that it bothers her, that he's out there 'corrupting' her precious friend—why, last week, he'd even managed to convince Patroclus to skip class to come with him to the arcade. The manager had just installed a new DDR machine, and Achilles had a score to settle._

_She glares at him, "If you keep on like this, you're never going to be accepted into the University of Pennsylvania."_ That _causes Achilles to pause._

_"You applied to UPenn?" He'd known that Patroclus was planning on applying to colleges, of course. Patroclus had really been pushing for him to try and see if he could get accepted to one of the local schools—Achilles had smiled and said he'd consider it, but had never really put any actual thought into applying._

_Achilles is smart, in his own way. Or, at least, that's what Thetis had always told him._

_To be honest, the lessons he learned in school had stopped making sense around the ninth grade, and by the eleventh, he was in serious danger of being held back. Although he tried out for and made the track team every year, he was eventually cut from the team around mid-year, when the coach would check-in on everyone's grades and cut those that weren't up to snuff. He didn't have enough room to properly fit orchestra in his schedule, so when his grades dropped, he couldn't turn to music as an outlet, either. With no extra-curriculars, and utterly abysmal grades, his odds of getting into_ any _school were so astronomically small, they weren't even worth considering. But he couldn't just... come out and tell Patroclus that._

_Of course, he's also been operating under the assumption that Patroclus would be applying to schools that he'd have_ some _small chance of getting into._

_Not freaking_ UPenn.

_UPenn was for students who were_ actually _smart, not for those who couldn't manage at least a C- after spending the entire night studying the SparkNotes for a book they'd never intended to read (and then had discovered that they'd done so abysmally because they'd been reading up on the wrong book). Honestly... Now that he thinks about it, he's not surprised that Patroclus didn't tell him. There's an awful, gnawing ache inside of his chest that he can't quite name. A feeling of... unworthiness? Like, no matter how hard he tries, he'll never be on the same level as Pat._

_He doesn't like feeling lesser-than. He's not used to it._

_"I don't think that I'll actually get in." Patroclus waves him off. But everyone there knows that that's a lie. Of course Patroclus will get in—because he's Patroclus. He'll go off to where Achilles cannot follow, and Achilles can't even be mad about it, because he's_ earned _it. There's no question that he's earned it._

_So he forces a smile and reminds him, "You should get going if you don't want to be late for class." And Patroclus kisses him one more time and he thinks, for just a second, that everything's going to be alright. But then Patroclus disappears around the corner and the reality of the situation settles in and Achilles feels_ panic _, like long, icy fingers, start to work its way up his chest and into his throat._

_He spends the bulk of sixth period having a panic attack in the boy's bathroom._

* * *

Amaltheia takes one look at him and starts to wail _harder_ , her chubby little limbs swinging violently as Achilles struggles to shift her into a comfortable position for the both of them. In his haste to remove himself from the earlier situation, he’d forgotten just how _bad_ he is with small children—

They’d been lucky with Pyrrhus. He’d been a remarkably even-tempered baby, who only cried when he was hungry or wet—unlike Amaltheia, who seemed to cry whenever Achilles was in the nearby vicinity. Which did wonders for his already lacking self-esteem. He knew that he shouldn’t take it personally, seeing as she was a baby and incapable of hating him because she did not yet understand what the word ‘hate’ meant. But it certainly _felt_ personal when he’d sit there for a half-hour trying to calm her, to no avail, only for Brie or Pat to take her and be met with _instant_ success.

Speaking of Brie… his shoulders tensed, his jaw aching as he clenched his teeth and fought against the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised that Brie did what she did. This is hardly the first time she’s said that Patroclus deserves better—or had gone so far as to try and _prove_ it to him.

It _is_ the first time that Patroclus had ever taken her up on the offer, though.

Achilles swallows hard, beginning to rock the chair back and forth ever so slowly. “I’m sorry that all that yelling interrupted your nap, little one. And while I know that I’m probably the _last_ person you want to see right now—”

Amaltheia lets out a distressed little yip… although her crying does quiet, even if just a little.

“I know that I’m not the world’s best father. I was pretty messed up even before you came along.” He sniffles, a few tears streaking down his flushed cheeks. “I’m not a good man. I-I know that I don’t deserve you, and Pyrrhus, and your Papa… but fuck, I’m trying. I’m trying, so hard, to be a man worthy of you…”

How _dare_ she come at him and tell him that all he was, and all he ever _would_ be, was a petty, narcissistic shell of a man. How _dare_ she act like she understood what it was like to live inside of his broken body, to constantly be waging war against the little voice in the back of his head that was telling him that he shouldn’t be in this much pain just from walking up and down the stairs, that he should be able to walk down the freaking hallway without his cane without having to worry about falling and injuring himself further. He used to be the star of their high school’s track team, used to be able to sit at the piano for _hours_ doing recitals for all of his mother’s little friends. _He used to be a solider_. He used to be so much more than a diagnosis he could barely pronounce and _pain_.

* * *

_Patroclus’ dark eyes are fixed on the bright red 27 that’s circled at the top of the page. “H-How did you…?”_

_“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about.” Achilles says. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans to avoid the urge to yank the paper out of Patroclus’ hands and tear it to shreds. “A 27% isn’t so bad.”_

_“Isn’t so…” Patroclus begins to flip through the pages of Achilles’ test. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s more upset over the fact that a number of the answers have been left blank, or that a seemingly_ equal _number of them have been filled in with random words, just so that he could say he didn’t leave any answers blank. “Achilles, this is an ‘F’! It’s_ worse _than an ‘F’!”_

_Achilles is fairly certain he would know by now if it were possible to earn a grade_ worse _than an ‘F’. He rolls his eyes and tries for a smile, “Yes, we’ve already established that you’re smarter than me. There’s no need to rub it in.” Patroclus continues to read over his answers, oblivious to Achilles’ subtle hints to drop the subject._

_“I let you_ cheat off of me _!” And, okay—that was a bit too loud for Achilles’ liking. If the teachers were to catch wind of him cheating off of Patroclus, a 27% would be the least of his problems._

_“Yes, well…” He tries, and fails, to think of an appropriate comeback, and ends up settling on, “Maybe_ you _should work on making your handwriting more legible.”_

_He’d tried—fuck, he’d tried_ so _hard, to get a passing grade on that exam. To prove to himself, and Briseis, and anyone else who wanted to stick their nose in his affairs, that he was smart. That he was worthy of someone like Patroclus. Patroclus, who’d already received his acceptance letter from UPenn, but was waiting to accept their offer until he knew what schools Achilles had to choose from. Patroclus, who was willing to turn down an offer from an Ivy League school just so he could be with his boyfriend, who couldn’t even score a passing grade on his Literature midterm while cheating off of the smartest kid in the class. The disappointment that laces each and every one of Patroclus’ words stabs him like a lance._

_He wishes that he were smarter, that things like math and science and… fuck, even just_ reading _came easily to him._

_He wishes that he weren’t too embarrassed to tell his mother that it was more than just a lack of caring._

_He wishes that he could be a partner that someone like Patroclus could be proud of…_

* * *

Amaltheia is quiet.

She’s not sleeping, but she’s also not screaming her head off… this is the first time that Achilles has ever been successful at quieting her before. Tears of an entirely different sort prickle at the corners of his eyes as he looks down at her little face, still a little flushed and still wet with tears. Gods, but he loves her so much. He only wishes that he could do more for her— _be_ more for her. He starts to rock the chair a little harder, running his fingers through her tight, wiry curls. She smacks her lips and gives him an adorable little smile.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word…” He’s not the best singer in the world. But Pyrrhus had seemed to like it when Achilles would sing to him whilst he was still in Briseis’ tummy, so he figures it’s worth a shot.

“Gah!” Amaltheia reaches up, her little hand catching on the chain around Achilles’ neck. There’s a sharp _click_ as his dog tags rattle together underneath the collar of his shirt. He takes a deep breath, struggling to stifle a sob. If he starts crying in earnest, then Amaltheia will get upset again and…

He and Briseis had never been the best of friends, but he’d expected so much more from her after all this time. When she’d volunteered to be their surrogate, he’d mistakenly thought that all of the drama of the past was behind them. And then, after the accident… she’d even begun to be _kind_ to him. And he’d… even at his lowest, he’d always done his best to be kind to her in return. If nothing else, _she was the mother of his children_. She was the reason that there were two little angels in the world that called him Daddy. Or, they _would_ , once Amaltheia said her first words. She’d given him such a precious gift… he didn’t think he had the power to ever _truly_ hate her, knowing that it was only _through_ her that he had Pyrrhus and Amaltheia. And yet, at the same time…

He didn’t think he could ever truly forgive her for what she’d done, either.

“Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

* * *

_“When are you planning on telling Patroclus that you enlisted?” Briseis asks. She’s over at his house, working to put together the last few parts of their book report that is due on Monday._

_Achilles is about seventy-five percent certain that the teacher hates him, because when he’d reminded her that he didn’t work with student’s other than Patroclus, citing the incident in gym class the week before—_

_(As a token of goodwill, after Patroclus had chosen to team with Briseis for tennis that class, he’d asked Hector if the older teen would be willing to team with him against Patroclus and Briseis in a doubles match. It’d been a nice, thoughtful gesture, that’d all gone to hell the moment Hector had stuck his big, fat face where it didn’t belong and had broken his nose on Achilles’ racket. And before you even ask—no, despite the nonsense that Hector had fed to the teacher, Achilles had not hit him on purpose.)_

_The old bat had smiled thinly and reminded him that life was unfair and that we didn’t always get what we wanted._

_Achilles chews on his eraser, “Sometime between now and never.” It’s the same answer he’d_ been _giving her, ever since she’d accidentally found out that he’d decided to enlist instead of placing his bets on which rejection letter would come through first._

_“He deserves to know.” Achilles rolls his eyes. It’s always the same old song-and-dance with her. “His entire future is on the line here! He’s literally postponing accepting a full-ride to an_ Ivy League school _for an acceptance letter that’s never going to come.”_

_“I know that.” He says, willing her to drop it._

_“If you really loved him, you wouldn’t be putting him through this.” Achilles knows that, too. He knows that he’s being selfish in postponing the inevitable. But what if… what if Patroclus decides that’s it, then? That Achilles isn’t worth the trouble, and that it would be better for him to find someone_ smart _and_ empathetic _and… and…_

_Achilles says none of this. Instead, he gives her the finger. “Damn, Brie. You sound half in love with him yourself. It’s a shame you didn’t have the balls to make a move before he put a ring on it.” He flashes his engagement ring. Briseis’ disgust intensifies._

_“I can’t_ believe _you!” She tugs at her hair, her cheeks flushed with exasperation. “You know what? Forget it. If you won’t tell him then I will—”_

* * *

Amaltheia is sleeping.

He waits for a couple of minutes, just to make sure that it isn’t a false alarm. When he is certain that the six-month-old won’t wake when he moves her, he transfers her back to her crib and tucks her back in underneath her blanket. She looks so peaceful lying there that he cannot help but sit a moment longer and take her in. He cannot remember the last time that he himself slept so soundly… but it was likely long before the accident, before even Pyrrhus was a twinkle in their eyes. When he feels calm enough to leave, he rises on unsteady legs and bears down heavily on his cane, shuffling off in the direction of the bathroom. There’s a stop that he intends to make before he climbs back into bed and tries to pretend that none of this ever happened…

Patroclus sees him emerge from the nursery and begins to trail behind him like a lost puppy, trying to initiate a conversation about a half-dozen times before finally giving up in favor of trying to deduce what it is that Achilles is planning to do.

“Achilles,” he knows that Patroclus is calling his name, but the words do not register. “Achilles!”

Achilles stands in the middle of their study, tears streaking down his softly flushed cheeks. There are hundreds of photos in this room—some hang on the walls in ornate picture frames, a thin layer of dust on the smooth glass pane that covers the photos; some are taped up alongside the computer and along the shelf above the desk; and some are filed away in old albums, tucked onto the bottom shelves of bookcases, to be brought out when someone feels the urge to take a walk down memory lane. Except this time, Achilles is not here to bury himself amidst the pleasant memories of the not-so-distant past. No, this time, Achilles is on the lookout for a very specific picture—and he finds it sitting on the shelf, directly above Patroclus’ desk.

Achilles tries not to dwell on their time in high school—not just because he’d almost flunked out during their senior year (although, he must admit, that did play a major part in it—it was difficult, even now, for him to admit that there were some things he simply was not good at, and that academics had been one of them), but because of how close Brie and Pat had become in the months leading up to graduation. Both had been accepted into the University of Pennsylvania, with merit scholarships contingent on maintaining a 3.0 GPA or higher…

The offending picture features Briseis planting a big, fat, _wet_ kiss on his then-fiancé’s cheek, while the new graduates tossed their caps into the sky in the background. Achilles had never been particularly fond of the picture, but hadn’t complained because, as Pat liked to point out, it was one of the few they had of him and Brie together.

Now…?

“Achilles, what are you…?!” Achilles squares his shoulders, before raising his cane and swinging it _violently,_ sending that picture, and about half a dozen others, crashing to the ground in a sea of broken glass.


	22. A Little Bit of Blood

“Achilles!” Patroclus is yelling now, anger and concern darkening his tone as he reaches out to try and stop another of Achilles’ wild swings. His fingertips graze Achilles’ arm, unable to catch him before he brings the cane down _again_ —this time coming within centimeters of Patroclus’ computer monitor.

Achilles’ chest heaves as he considers the mess that he’s made—that he’s _still_ making. It’s not the worst that he’s ever done (that would be the fist-sized hole in the wall, which Patroclus had valiantly attempted to plaster over before giving up and relocating one of their many, many bookcases, filled to the brim with thick, dust-covered medical textbooks in front of it), but it’s certainly not _good_. The graduation picture hadn’t been the only victim of Achilles’ rage. They are currently _surrounded_ by a veritable sea of glass and distorted memories.

Guilt twists his stomach into tight, slick little knots. He doesn’t _want_ to destroy Patroclus’ things (there are dozens and dozens of memories in this room, the majority of which well-worth remembering—but the warmth that he felt when he looked at their wedding photos, or Pyrrhus’ first school pictures, didn’t take away the burning desire inside of him to destroy every last trace of Briseis that he could get his hands on). And there’s a part of him, way, _way_ deep down, that likes to think that Patroclus understands. That Patroclus _knew_ that this would be his reaction if he ever found out exactly what Briseis had done. It’s not enough for him to know that she’s never coming back; he needs ever last reminder of her _gone_ from his house, his _safe space_.

Tears burn like cinders in the corners of his eyes as that all-encompassing rage bubbles up within him again. He raises his cane and makes to swing, aiming for a picture of Briseis and Patroclus together on their wedding day. He swings wildly, putting _far_ too much force in the follow-through… his leg buckles underneath his weight, pain shooting up from his ruined heel as his entire body begins to list forward. It doesn’t even fully register that he’s begun to fall until Patroclus shouts his name again and twists them around so that his body bears the brunt of the impact. Achilles makes a startled little sound when they land, his leg twisting up uncomfortably underneath him. It’s not the worst position in the world, but it’s certainly not one that he would’ve chosen had he had the time to _think_.

Achilles stays like that for a moment, his head resting on Patroclus’ broad chest. The other man’s heart is beating a little too fast, and his breathing is labored… like he’d just gotten done running a marathon. Achilles feels something akin to offense—yes, he knows that he’s not in the best of shape. Catching him mid-fall shouldn’t have him breathing like a woman in the throes of labor. Aggravated, he begins to try to wiggle his way out of Patroclus’ arms, only for Patroclus to draw in a sharp, stuttering breath and sink his fingers _deep_ into the flesh of his hips.

It doesn’t quite feel like an attempt to anchor him into place. It’s more like… the way that he used to grab onto Patroclus’ hand at the first set of doctor’s appointments after his surgery, when the doctors would poke and prod at his still-sensitive wound in an attempt to gain some sort of insight as to the severity of his injuries.

Achilles thinks that all doctors have a bit of a masochistic streak—Patroclus included.

And that’s when he sees the blood.

There’s not a significant amount of it. Not yet, anyway. But it stains Patroclus’ gray and blue sweatpants so severely, it looks as if there’s been a particularly sloppy attempt made on his life. The soft fabric almost appears black under the dim lighting in their study, with enough excess liquid seeping through the fabric to ooze out onto their carpet.

It takes Achilles far longer than it should’ve for him to realize that Patroclus had landed _on top_ of the shards from the broken picture frame, and that several of those shards were now impaled in the back of his leg and the taut curve of his left buttock. Bile rises in the back of Achilles throat, burning hot—it takes everything he has to swallow it down.

“It’s fine.” Patroclus says, in a way that tells Achilles that it is absolutely _not_ fine. Not fine at all. “It’s… _fine_. J-Just give me a second to think.” His face is a little too pale, with beads of sweat forming along his brow.

All of the fire that’d been burning in Achilles’ belly dies out almost immediately. It is replaced with _ice_ —the wholly unpleasant sort, that makes your mind foggy and your limbs ache. “It’s absolutely _not_ fine, Pat—you’re… you’re _bleeding_!” He shouts, as if Pat himself had not noticed this fact.

His husband forces a smile, “I’d rather me than you.” And that’s… _charming_ , yes, but also—no! Absolutely not! Patroclus saying shit like that makes Achilles feel absolutely _raw_ inside, like someone had cracked his chest open and run a rake up and down his insides.

Patroclus have to be hurt because Achilles couldn’t keep a lid on his anger.

“No. No, you… you don’t get to do that.” Achilles balls his hands into fits and strikes Patroclus’ chest weakly. “This… you weren’t supposed t-to follow me!”

His husband shakes his head, “Look, I… I know that I fucked up. I shouldn’t have kept this from you.” Achilles scowls, twitching in the other man’s arms. He starts to pull away again, but Patroclus holds him fast. “If breaking all of the p-pictures in here… will make you feel better, then… t-then do it. But please… be _safe_ about it.”

Achilles pouts, “I was being perfectly safe.”

“Achilles, love…” Patroclus’ smile begins to warble a little at the corners, “I currently have _at least_ three different pieces of g-glass… s-stuck in my ass.” He shifts Achilles weight a bit, so that he can look the other man in the eye. “What if that had been you?” The sheer amount of concern in Patroclus’ voice nearly summons a fresh round of tears.

So, he tries to push back, even if only a little. “It wouldn’t have been in my ass.”

Technically, that _is_ true. When his leg had gone out underneath him, he’d toppled _forward_ —he likely would’ve been impaled in the shoulder, or the chest, or… Come to think of it, it probably would’ve been considerably _worse_ , had Patroclus not been there to break his fall. But he doesn’t want to admit to that. He’s still angry. Okay, he’s not so much _angry_ as he is _tired_ , and growing ever-more concerned about the puddle of blood that’s growing underneath Patroclus as his husband continues to ‘think’ about what to do about their not-so-little situation.

Shouldn’t he be calling 911? Achilles is equipped to remove a splinter… _maybe_. Their son is a rambunctious six-year-old with an affinity for climbing (and falling out of) trees, of course he knows how to remove a splinter. But the idea of accidentally hurting Pyrrhus renders him absolutely useless in those sorts of situations—more often than not, he’s shaking too badly to even get a proper grip on the little sliver of wood, let alone to remove it quickly and painlessly. If Patroclus thought that he was ready to take on multiple pieces of _glass_ , he had another thing coming.

Glass is just so intricate—so _delicate_. What if there were tiny pieces left behind that Achilles couldn’t see with his naked eye? What if Patroclus ended up with some sort of horrible infection because Achilles couldn’t remove all of the pieces? And that’s just the icing on the cake. There’s also the fact that there’s no way he can tell how deeply those pieces of glass are imbedded in his leg with him sitting down like this. What if he needs stitches? Achilles doesn’t have _any_ earthly idea how to do stitches correctly, and that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that Patroclus will be able to walk him through while Achilles is pulling giant pieces of glass out of his ass. Perhaps, if the wound were in a more accessible location, there’d be a chance that Patroclus could stitch the wound himself, but…

But there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to contort himself to reach the wound where it’s at…

Or, where Achilles is _assuming_ the wound is at. He has yet to actually _see_ it.

“Alright.” Patroclus takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m going to need your help getting to the bathroom. Do you think that you can get back to your feet without my help?”

Achilles is silent for a moment, considering. He stretches out his injured leg, wincing a little as a sharp stab of pain originates in his heel and cuts sharply up along the back of his leg. It’s not the worst pain he’s ever experienced, but it’s certainly far from pleasant. “Yeah, I can… I can do it, no problem.”

It is _definitely_ a problem. Thankfully, Patroclus doesn’t call his bluff as he uses the corner of Patroclus’ desk to help him stumble his way to his feet. It’s far from graceful, but it works. “Now, if you lean most of your weight on the desk there, do you think you could give me a hand?”

“I… can try.” Achilles can _also_ think of about one-thousand ways that this could go horribly wrong. Still, he braces himself, shifting the majority of his weight onto his good leg—“Do you think that you can stand?”

Patroclus doesn’t answer, at least, not right away. Instead, he rolls over onto his uninjured side, hissing a bit when his pajama bottoms tugged on the pieces of glass. “Fuck,” each breath comes out as a wheeze as he considers the damage to their carpet, “We’re going to need to tear up the carpet. There’s no coming back from that.”

“Can we not worry about the carpet until we get those chunks of glass out of you?”

“It’s… a nice distraction from the pain.” Patroclus admits after a moment. Another bright stab of guilt hits Achilles right in the chest—gods, he’s such a fucking asshole. “Give me… j-just a second, alright?”

He’ll give Patroclus all the time that he needs. His eyes never leave his husband’s face as he takes a long, deep breath and swings himself around onto his knees. He reaches out for Achilles’ hand and yanks _hard_ , nearly sending them both toppling down onto the blood-soaked carpet once again. His short, blunt nails dig into Achilles’ skin as he hauls himself up onto his feet, and continues to cling to him, a little desperate, as he gets his bearings. Achilles uses the brief moment of respite to consider the damage to their carpet…

Gods, Patroclus hadn’t been kidding—their carpet is an absolute _mess_ ; there’s no way that all of that is going to come out. Achilles can try to hide the worst of it underneath a towel, just in case Pyrrhus wandered in (honestly, he’s amazed that Pyrrhus hadn’t woken up yet—that kid could sleep through an earthquake).

(Or his father taking his cane to precious photos like it was a fucking baseball bat).

It takes a considerable amount of effort to get them both to the bathroom in one piece. Achilles will forever be proud of the fact that the worst of the mess seems to have been localized to the study—there were a few drops of blood on the carpet in-between the study and the bathroom, yes, but nothing that he wouldn’t be able to pull up with dish soap and cold water. Once in the bathroom, he lowers himself down onto the toilet and inhales deeply through the nose. He’s going to regret _all_ of this in just a handful of hours, when he can no longer stand without sobbing from the pain. Patroclus braces himself against the corner of their sink as he begins to rifle through their medicine cabinet, grabbing a pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers, the bottle of rubbing alcohol, the tube of antiseptic gel…

They both agree that it’s a bad idea to try and remove the pants—especially with the way that the glass is stuck. Besides, much like their carpet, he’s fairly certain that Patroclus’ pajama bottoms are fucked. There’s no way that all of that is going to come out in the wash, so there’s no reason to feel bad for cutting them to pieces.

Once the pants are out of the way, he’s able to see the wound a little better. It’s not as bad as it could be, all things considered, but his heart still aches to see it. “Can you see how deep the glass is?”

Achilles hums, “I think I should be able to remove it without too much trouble. Just let me sterilize the tweezers here…” He sterilizes the tweezers with the rubbing alcohol, wincing a little at the thought of how badly that was going to sting. Not as bad as if he’d cleaned out the wound with it, but still…

“Just… try to keep your hands steady, alright? It’s really… _ah_!” Patroclus jumps a little, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “Okay, I’m g-gonna… try not to do that again. Because that could be bad.”

Once Patroclus has braced himself, Achilles removes the three pieces of glass imbedded in his husband’s skin with as much care as possible. He tosses the broken bits of glass into the wastebin, before reaching for one of their washcloths and wetting it with steaming hot water from the tap. Patroclus _yelps_ , his back arching sharply when the hot cloth comes in contact with the puncture wounds… but soon enough, the soothing heat relieves some of the burning, and he finds himself leaning into the touch, if only a little. He seems relieved that the worst of it is over (although that, of course, is debatable, considering that Achilles had yet to treat the wounds with antiseptic and bandage them—and everyone knew the worst part of bandaging a wound was pulling said bandage _off_ ).

He’s pulled from his thoughts by a timid knock on the bathroom door. “D-Daddy? Papa?” There’s the distinctive sound of a sniffle, “I… I need help. I had an a-accident.”

Achilles furrows his brows. He cannot remember the last time that Pyrrhus had an accident, but it certainly hadn’t been since their little boy had turned six. “That’s okay, baby. There’s no need for tears, alright?” Which is easy for him to say—but not so easy for Pyrrhus to just turn off. “Daddy will be there to help you in a minute.”

“I-I’m sorry.” Pyrrhus hiccups. Achilles’ heart breaks to imagine him standing on the other side of the door, his cheeks blotchy and his nose swollen and caked with dry snot.

God… kids were actually kind of disgusting.

He smacks Patroclus on his uninjured ass cheek, “My official diagnosis is that you’re going to live. It’s a good thing, too. Because I’d hate to have to hide a dead body before I bring Pyrrhus in here for a bath.”

Patroclus stands a little straighter, pressing tentatively at the edges of his bandages to keep them from peeling up away from his skin. “…Are we… going to be okay, Achilles?”

Achilles licks his lips, as he sets about placing all of their medical supplies back where Patroclus had grabbed them and washing his hands. “…We’re going to have a lot to talk about in couple’s counseling. That’s for sure.”

* * *

Pyrrhus is silent for the duration of his bath, despite Achilles’ best efforts to cheer him with his _abundance_ of bath toys. In the end, Achilles counts his blessings that the kid was cooperative for the majority of the time that he was in the water, taking care to scrub behind the ears and refraining from shaking out his hair and dousing the entire bathroom in bath water. Once Pyrrhus is clean, he throws the dirty sheets into the wash and (with a _tremendous_ amount of effort), flips the mattress over to hide the stain. After everything is said and done, he’s _still_ not upset with his son, despite Pyrrhus’ insistence that he _should_ be. He’s _six_ —these things happen. There was nothing in the house that couldn’t be replaced (aside from Pyrrhus and Amaltheia, of course).

He ends up taking Pyrrhus out for breakfast (well… technically brunch, considering the late hour, but Pyrrhus orders a heaping stack of piping-hot blueberry pancakes slathered in butter and maple syrup, with a side of sausage—which Achilles knows, from the get-go, that he’s going to be eating, because the kid’s eyes are always bigger than his stomach). It makes Pyrrhus feel like a proper grown-up, to sit at a booth across from his Daddy and be allowed to choose _anything_ he wants off the menu—even if it’s not on the kid’s menu! With each delicious, butter-infused bite, his worries seem to fade a little further into oblivion, until he’s smiling bright and asking if they should choose something off of the menu to bring home for Papa.

Achilles tells him that he has an even _better_ idea. He’s in the market for some new furniture for the gym, and he’s in need of someone with an _expert_ eye for color coordination to help him choose just the right set. Clearly, Pyrrhus, in his flamingo-pink top and mandarin orange shorts (which just _barely_ go together—although the pink is a bit too gaudy for Achilles’ tastes) is the perfect choice to help him redesign his space. He can even come down to the office with him and help him assemble all of the furniture when they’re done.

Pyrrhus is always on-board for a trip to IKEA. He’s even _more_ excited at the prospect of having one of those soft-serve ice creams they have down in the Bistro (Achilles had to say yes, he did—because Pyrrhus had been a _very good boy_ and eaten _all_ of his breakfast. Even the sausages that Achilles had kinda-sorta been looking forward to).

They’re in the office section, mulling over the multiple varieties of filing cabinets on display, when Pyrrhus finally comes out with what’s been on his mind since that morning. “Daddy?”

“Hmm? What is it, baby?” He leans heavily on his cane as he considers the ERIK office filing cabinet. It doesn’t really _fit_ with the whole gym aesthetic, but it _does_ have a locking feature. Patroclus had been… _gently_ encouraging him to buy a safe for some time, if he intended to continue keeping the gym’s receipts on-premises.

Up until Deidamia, Achilles hadn’t had good reason to follow through. But now…

“Are you and Papa going to be getting a divorce?” The words don’t register in Achilles’ mind, not at first. He’s too busy trying to decide whether this particular shade of white will match the white in the couch cover that Pyrrhus picked out a couple of departments back. “Daddy! I asked if you and Papa are going to get a divorce?!”

Achilles nearly drops the manual he’s holding. Two women that’ve been debating the lumbar support on various office chairs glance at them every so often and begin to whisper— _loudly_. Achilles flashes them a smile that screams ‘mind your own fucking business.’ “Of course not, darling. Why would you think such a thing?”

“B-Because, I…” Pyrrhus screws up his face. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s trying to remember _why_ he’d come to that conclusion, or whether he’s attempting to come up with a lie to conceal the _real_ reason he’s so concerned.

Achilles wishes that he were capable of comfortably squatting down to the little one’s level. But after the morning that they’d had, the best he can do is ruffle his strawberry blond hair. “You know that you can tell me anything, right?”

Pyrrhus sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, “I don’t want to upset you.”

“Baby,” he tucks a few strands of hair behind Pyrrhus’ ear, “the only way you could possibly upset me is if you bottle up something that’s been eating away at you and let it fester. If there’s something— _anything_ —that I can do to help you, little man, then it is my privilege to do so as your Daddy.”

Pyrrhus seems to relax a little bit at that, but still doesn’t seem ready to come right out and tell Achilles about whatever it is that’s on his mind. Achilles cannot quite shake the nagging feeling that whatever it is has something to do with Briseis—she is the only other person that Pyrrhus would try to protect like this. Because, if Patroclus had meant what he said about never intending to file for divorce in the first place, then there would be no reason for him to discuss the term anywhere near where Pyrrhus might overhear. And even if he _were_ actually looking to get divorced, Achilles likes to think that his husband is a bit more careful than that. He would wait until they could address the topic together, so that there could be no misunderstandings as to what was happening and what it all meant.

The rest of the trip is remarkably uneventful, save for the fact that Achilles’ American Express card is declined three times at the register. It’s the same account that Patroclus had insisted Briseis be made an authorized user, so that she would have immediate access to funds in case an emergency arose involving one or both of the kids. He makes a mental note to call American Express and have her removed from the account… he doesn’t even want to know what she’d spent the money on. It doesn’t matter anymore.

He apologizes to the cashier for the inconvenience and presents his debit card, which has more than enough to cover the damage. Pyrrhus is drooling over the candy that Achilles had bought for him (which he had sworn would be a secret just between them—he knew that Patroclus would have his head for pumping Pyrrhus full of so much sugar).

The real challenge doesn’t come until they arrive at the gym and have to transport all of the boxes downstairs.

Since the gym is going to be closed for the indefinite future, he doesn’t mind leaving some of the more cumbersome boxes (like the couches… and the filing cabinets… and… well, almost everything) upstairs by the front desk. He and Pyrrhus bring the smaller items (like the new shelves… and small trinkets to line those shelves…) down into the office. The office itself is incredibly musty, having been all but abandoned for the past two days. Almost immediately after turning on the light, he starts the fans going to try to make the air a little easier to breathe.

“Daddy, is this your hair?” Pyrrhus asks. Achilles’ eyes widen a bit when he realizes he’d never cleaned his hair up off of the floor after he’d chopped it all off in a fit of melancholy. Thank god he’d remembered to take the pocketknife…

“It _is_.” He concedes. “Daddy has a little bit of cleaning up to do after he checks something _very_ important on his computer.” Pyrrhus stares up at him, wide-eyed. “In the meantime, I was thinking that you could do something _very_ important for Daddy.”

“I help! I help!” Pyrrhus cheers, as excitable as ever. Whatever had been plaguing him earlier is little more than a distant memory now.

Achilles points to a small watering can in the corner. “I need you to take that watering can and fill it with water from the restroom upstairs, and then water _all_ of Zagreus’ plants for me. Do you think you can do that?”

Pyrrhus nods happily, “Leave it to me!” He runs off, grabbing the watering can before making a beeline for the stairs, taking them two at a time—

“Be careful!” He watches until Pyrrhus’ shadow disappears around the corner, and waits until he can no longer hear his heavy footfalls near the door. And then he waits a while longer, his fingers lingering near the keys on his desktop computer.

His cameras would keep the footage for 90 days. There was no reason he _had_ to do this now. But then… he remembers how it felt to walk in on Briseis and Patroclus talking about how she’d been working to undermine their relationship, how he’d been in the dark as to the character of a _major_ influence on his children…

He couldn’t be in the dark about this, too. He had to fill in that nine hour gap in his memory.

…He pulls out his desk chair and takes a seat.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on twitter [@MsThunderFrost](https://twitter.com/MsThunderFrost)


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